The Intoxication of Tears
by Kyrie74
Summary: In the ruins of the Opera Populaire, a woman in black and a man in a white mask are drawn into a union of shadows and memories.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

A young woman in black stood on the steps of the Opera Populaire. The November wind tugged relentlessly at her veil, as if trying to pull it away and reveal the beneath it.

She looked up at the desolate theatre and sighed. It had been five years since her last visit and then it had been a glorious temple of shining marble and gilded statues. A lavish place swelling with life and music.

One heavy door, sagging on its hinges, swung open slowly when she pushed on it.

It was chilly inside and she pulled her fine cloak tighter around her body as she hurried across the ruined lobby.

Startled pigeons skittered out of her way and took flight as she carefully picked her way up the steps to the auditorium.

The great space was empty, the chairs and statues that were not destroyed after the chandelier's terrible crash were long since removed. It was like a man-made cavern with a crumbling arch and a stage at its center.

Gathering up her skirts with one hand, the woman stepped up onto the rough wooden ramp that led onto the stage. She walked carefully, afraid that the boards might break beneath her.

A shadow watched as she lifted her veil. A shadow in a white mask stood in the shadows of Box Five and looked down at the lady on the stage.

His hand tightened on the edge of the box, ignoring the splinters that drove into his palm.

_Can it be…can it be Christine?_

He did not let himself breath and edged further back into the sanctuary of darkness, afraid that she might vanish like all the other…like the other Christines who visited him each night.

It was not Christine. He did not recognize this woman. And he felt as if he would weep again, though he could not say whether it was from despair or from relief.

He watched her…she stood so still in the center of the stage, but her eyes seemed to be searching…

_Not for me…I don't know this woman…_

He leaned back against the wall, trying to remember how long it had been…how long since another human being had ventured into this cursed place…

He drew his cloak close and moved into the passageway.


	2. Chapter 2

"Why did I come here," she said to herself as she stepped over a bit of twisted metal. A strand of broken crystals…no doubt from the fallen chandelier glimmer faintly in a pile of dust.

_What do I hope to find here…after all these months with no word, no sign…nothing. The gendarmes found no sign of them after the fire…_

For a moment, it seemed she heard footsteps echoing faintly…but they were so soft she could not tell where they came from…above her…behind her.

_There is no one here…only ghosts and memories…_

No, there were no footsteps…only a faint rasping sound…a scurrying rat, perhaps…

_Were they still here…lost somewhere in this wrecked opera house…two bodies twisted together for eternity?_

_For Maman's sake…I must know what became of him…_

* * *

He watched her from behind the proscenium arch, watched as she gently poked at a bit of broken scenery…a large plaster head…with the toe of her elegant black boot.

He had never seen this woman before. He was certain of that.

After all, there had been so few women in his life…the mother who had rejected him…the ballet girl who'd given his shelter in this very theater…the Khanum who delighted in taunting him with her cruel requests…and Christine…

Yet this woman with her honey-brown hair and refined features was too familiar to be a stranger.

Where had he seen her before? Why did he feel as if they had met before?

She looked around the auditorium one last time. It was futile to look for them here.

She turned with a dejected shrug, her heavy skirt rasping against the rough boards.

And she found a man standing before her…scarcely a foot away.

A tall man in a black cloak and a white mask.

_This is the Opera Ghost, then…this is the man they called a Phantom._

* * *

He waited for the woman to scream…to flee in horror…to slump down at his feet in a dead faint.

She did not and he watched, feeling a vague stir of admiration, as she stiffened her shoulders against her fear.

So unlike those little ballet tarts and silly chorus girls who would shriek in terror and scatter if his presence was even hinted at.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three 

For a moment, the mask seemed to take all of her awareness. She saw nothing else in the gloom of the theatre, but those hard white features.

Gradually, the rest of his face became clear to her…lips that curled in an angry smirk, cold green eyes that seemed to burn through the shadows between them.

He shrugged back his cape and took a step closer to her.

_He is the only one who knows… _

She forced herself not to run, forced herself to speak.

"You did this…you're the Phantom, aren't you…you're the one who destroyed the opera house"

Her directness caught him off-guard. And as she spoke, he noted something about her voice.

Her French was perfect, aristocratic…but there was a hint of foreignness…Italian, perhaps?

"What is that to you, Madame? Why are you trespassing in my theatre?"

He smiled, seeing the fear trying to take control of her as a draft teased the edges of her veil.

Still, she did not give in to it.

Her brown eyes…no, not brown…a deep amber edged with long, thick lashes. 

"What became of the Vicomte de Chagny?"

He had not expected her question and, when he did not answer he immediately, she found the courage to go on.

"He was here," she insisted, "the night you let the chandelier fall. He came here because of a girl…because of Christine Daae."

He flinched when he heard that name…for the first time since that night.

He held her gaze for a long moment. When it seemed as if she would turn away, he drew the rope from the beneath his cloak and, a second later, he coiled it around her neck and spun her around.

"Now, Madame," he growled, pulling the rope so that she was jerked back against him, "who are you? Why have you come here asking about…de Chagny…about her?"

The noose was like a leash around her and she could feel the steady pounding of his heart against her back.

"Answer me, Madame, or I will pull this tighter."

"I am the Comtessa di Sciacca-Licaria," she gasped.

"That name means nothing to me," he said, jerking her head back against his shoulder.

"The Vicomte de Chagny is my brother."

Abruptly, she felt the lasso yanked from her neck and he pushed her away from him.

Her hand went instinctively to her throat as she turned to face him again. The rope hung limp in his hands and he was looking up at one of the gaping boxes.

_This man released a chandelier into a crowded theatre…they say he was behind the hanging a stage-hand, too. He could murder me now… _

"Did you kill him? Did you strangle him like that?"

He said nothing, but continue to stare silently at the box. It seemed as if he had forgotten her presence.

_I should run…  
_  
Instead, she lunged at him and caught him by his arm.

"What did you do to my brother and the girl he was going to marry…to Christine Daae? Where are they now?"

Those last words captured his attention, snapped him from the trance he seemed to have withdrawn into.

The rope had fallen from his hands, but he turned on her with vicious heat in his eyes. His hand closed around her wrist, but he did not pulled her from him.

"Madame," he snarled, "I do not know!"

He was telling her the truth. She could see that so plainly in his eyes, see the pain that both fueled and tempered his anger.

"I did not kill them, Comtessa! If that is what you think, you are mistaken. She left me…with him…I let them go…"

For a moment, it seemed as if his voice would break and his hold on her wrist tightened.

"I let them go! Do you understand that, Madame? She choose the boy…your brother…Christine saved his life, you see. They left me and I don't know what became of them…I let them go…because I love her." 

_He must be mad…like Theo's poor mother before she threw herself in the Alcantara River… _

But there was no madness in his eyes. Carefully, she eased her hand from his grasping fingers.

And she ran from the stage, stumbling once as she fled back down the stairs and across the foyer.

Her carriage was waiting for her near the abandoned café at the corner of the Place de l'Opera.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

The house on the Rue du Faubourg Saint Honore was quiet when she returned. No doubt her parents were dressing for dinner. 

Even as endless inquiries were made into disappearance of her younger brother and the opera singer, the daily rituals of life went on.

"Madame," the butler informed her, "a note arrived for you. From Normandy."

She took the envelope and hurried up the stairs, hoping the servant had not noticed her dusty and wrinkled appearance.

In her room, she did not call for her maid. She removed her black walking dress as best she could without help and stood before the mirror in her corset and chemise.

Leaning towards the glass, she examined her skin for marks. She noted, with some relief, that the high collar of her dress had protected her throat. Or perhaps the noose had not been so very tight…for there was only the faintest line across her neck.

But on her arm, she found five small dark bruises…where his hand had gripped her wrist.

In the drawer of her dressing table, she found a small jar and gingerly dabbed the salve onto the blotches.

That unexpected encounter in the ruined theatre had tired and frightened her. She wanted nothing more than to sink into her bed and sleep. 

Still, her parents would expect to see her at dinner. These past months since Raoul had vanished from the Opera Populaire had been so trying for them. She would not give them any further distress.

She dressed in a gown of black silk and fastened a heavy gold bracelet on her wrist. It was uncomfortable, but it concealed the bruises.

The envelope still lay on the little writing table by the window. She picked it up and broke the familiar seal.

_My dearest little sister,_

I am writing this letter to you and not to our parents as I do not wish to alarm them. 

There is no sign of our brother or of Mademoiselle Daae here in Normandy or in any of the Breton towns. I continue make inquiries, but there is no reason to believe that either of them has been here since Gustave Daae's death.

I shall be leaving for London in a few days and will pursue the search there.

It was good of you to come to Paris to keep our parents company. I know how many things must claim your attention at home, especially your husband's estates. I trust that his nephew will manage them well in your absence.

I will write to you again from England.

Philippe 

She sighed, and returning the note to the desk, when down to the dining room where her parents waited for her.

"Helene, my dearest child," her mother said with a little smile, "you look quite pale. Where have you been all afternoon?"

"I went to the Opera Populaire," she admitted as she spread the damask napkin on her lap.

"The Opera Populaire," her father echoed, setting down his crystal water goblet, "Helene, why on earth would you go there?"

She met her father's surprised gaze across the table as the servants began ladling a light, creamy soup from the massive tureen.

"I hoped to find some sign of Raoul," she said, "or encounter someone there who might have some scrap of information that would help us."

Louis de Chagny shook his head in amazement at his daughter. She had changed so much since her wedding, since leaving Paris for the estates in Sicily, since her husband's sudden death.

"And did you find anything?"

"No, Papa. Nothing."

She picked up her spoon, but did not touch the soup.

She would not…no, she could not tell them about that strange, unexpected encountered on that dark, desolate stage. They would gain nothing from knowing that the Opera Ghost, the man linked to Raoul's sudden disappearance was still alive, still there.

"But," she said gently, "I had a note from Phillippe."

She almost regretted mentioning the letter when she saw the hope in their eyes.

"There is no news. He is going on to England…again. I think he will go on to Sweden, too. Perhaps Mademoiselle Daae has family there still." 

She laid her napkin on the table and rose, not watching to see the sadness her brother's absence brought to the family.

"I'm sorry, Maman, Papa. I'm afraid the visit to the old opera house was tiring. I think I shall return to my room."

Suddenly, she needed loneliness. She wanted only the solitary sanctuary of sleep and silence.

In her room, she changed into a nightdress of plain white silk. She laid her gown over a chair; her maid could see to that in the morning.

When she removed the pearl-studded bracelet, she saw that the bruises had darkened…blue-gray stains on her pale arm.

She hurriedly brushed her hair and worked it into a braid. Then she extinguished the lamp and retreated into the sanctuary of the large bed with its pale blue drapery.

In the darkness, she traced the heavy gold wedding band…then her fingers slid up to her wrist and she held back a little cry as they found the mark of the Phantom's hand.

And for the thousandth time, she cursed her husband for dying.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

He took her arm as they walked along her favorite path to the ancient olive grove. There was only the thinnest curve of the moon visible in the night sky, but the stars were bright enough to light the way for them.

Beyond the grove, they could look down on the old villa and…far beyond, the fire-tipped shadow of Mount Etna.

The sweet smell of almond blossoms rose from the gardens below them as they found a seat beneath the twisted limbs of a venerable olive tree.

She let her head rest on his shoulder and she felt his lips brush against her hair as the distant volcano flared against the night sky.

For a long time, they sat together in silence…then, without a word or warning, he was pushing her down onto the soft earth.

She was startled at first. It was not like him…not out here in the grove.

The heat of his lips grazed her neck as he tugged open the bodice of her dress and she moaned in anticipation as he caressed her breasts…his palms engulfing them.

He pushed apart her legs and she reached down to draw up her skirts for him, crying out as her body welcomed his.

Strange that the eyes that met hers were not gray, but green darkened with passion.

But it did not matter now as she wound her arms around his shoulders, grasping and twisting the cloth of his shirt as she shivered with pleasure.

_This is not Theo…this is not my husband… _

It was only then that she reached up and felt the smooth leather mask that concealed his face.

Helene opened her eyes slowly, still trembling.

The comforter has fallen to the floor. Her nightdress was twisted around her torso and drawn up above her waist.

She hurriedly pulled her gown straight, flushing as she realized her fingertips were damp.

She wrapped herself in the light blue quilt and, resting her head on her arms, began to cry.

For the first time since her husband's funeral, she let herself cry.

* * *

Helene sat alone in the green warmth of the conservatory. The perfume of the orange blossoms did nothing to ease her tension.

They reminded her of home…and of that dream.

"My sweetness," he'd whispered against her skin as he took her over and over again…for the dream had returned each evening for a fortnight.

_It was only a few moments…he tried to kill me…I don't even know his name… _

It was not always the olive grove, though…sometimes it was the cool, quiet bedroom of the villa. Once it was a lemon orchard on the lower slopes of Etna…another time it was in plush and gilt of a theatre box.

As the dreams became more vivid…more passionate…the bruises on her arms faded away.

"Madame? A letter has come."

She looked up to see the butler with an envelope in his hands.

"I thought it best to give it to you directly, Madame, since Monsieur le Comte is not at home."

She took the envelope from him. It was filthy and wrinkled, the address was barely legible. But the handwriting was familiar.

She hurried up to her room and found her little mother-of-pearl letter opener. She slit the envelope open and shook out the note.

_To my dear parents, _

_I write this in haste from a little train station north of Gothenburg. I do not want you to worry for me. _

I was not harmed when the chandelier crashed into the stage of the opera house. The things which took place after are not easily explain in a letter. Someday, I will tell you.

I have married Christine Daae. I know you had your misgivings about such a match, However, I love her and it is for her sake that I cannot yet tell you where we are going.

I assure this separation from you is temporary and that we will return as soon as possible.

Give my best to Phillippe and Helene.

Your loving son,

Raoul de Chagny

She looked at the date…it had been written three weeks after the tragic fire at the Opera House.

The letter must have been lost for months…

She rang for her maid.

When the woman came, she handed her the letter.

"Jeannette, give this to Monsieur le Comte the moment he returns home. Without delay. Now, fetch my cloak."

Ten minutes later, her carriage was brought to the door.

"To the Opera Populaire," she ordered the driver as he helped her into the vehicle.


	6. Chapter 6

Helene ran down the sloping aisle and up the ramp onto the stage, her steps echoing.

The theatre was deserted and she realized how foolish it had been to come here. And for what? To tell the Opera Ghost that the woman he loved was alive…and married to her brother now?

There was no sign of the man…he was, after all, a man of flesh and blood…no true phantom.

"Are you there," she called into the shadows, "Monsieur?"

He watched her from high above, a silent shadow on an iron catwalk. He would not go down to her this time…

It didn't matter that she had come back again…it didn't matter why.

The ruined theatre was a dangerous place. She had no business being there…but if any harm came to this woman, he would not take the blame.

He turned to leave…he had better things to do than watch this inquisitive woman.

He looked down one last time and saw the old trap-door break open under her, heard the sound of cracking wood mix with her scream as she fell into the darkness.

* * *

She landed somewhere far beneath the stage, hitting the floor hard.

There was no light here, but she sensed that she was in a tiny room of some sort.

Carefully, she tried to stand…only to cry out in pain.

Her ankle…she'd felt it twist when the boards broke beneath her…

She sank back down…there was no way she could stand on it…or walk…she was trapped here.

_This is exactly what I deserve for coming here…what did I expect…_

* * *

She had fainted when he found her, lying crumpled in the crawl-space far below the stage.

_I should walk away and leave her…forget that she is here…_

Instead, he took off his cape and laid it over her. He lifted her into his arms and carried her down the narrow passage to the lake.

He laid her down in the boat and guided it across to his home.

_Why am I doing this…I have left her there…let her die._

As he gathered her up again, he heard her whimper softly. She had been injured when she fell…

As he carried her up the steps, her hair fell free of the ebony comb and trailed over his arms…just brushing along the Persian carpet.

Where could he put her? Not in the swan bed…that had been Christine's…he still thought of it as hers.

Carefully, he ducked through the velvet hangings that separated his own bedchamber from the other rooms.

He laid her on his bed and arranged the cape over her.


	7. Chapter 7

He leaned over her for a moment longer.

_Why did you come back, curious woman? _

A bruise was forming along her cheek. Gently, he pushed back a long lock of hair that lay heavily over it.

He remembered the beatings of his childhood…the almost daily thrashings…how even a leaf brushing his skin was agony.

* * *

It wasn't the pain that awakened her. No, it was the sudden unfamiliarity her surroundings that brought her back.

She had a vague recollection of being lifted up in that blackness and carried in a man's strong arms…

She opened her eyes and looked around the room.

She was lying beneath a heavy black covering in a plain mahogany bed. A single candle was lit on the armoire nearby.

A robe of deep green velvet was tossed carelessly across a chair in the corner. Atop it lay a violin and bow.

As she shifted, her ankle throbbed mercilessly.

She heard the sound of water in the distance…a soft, irregular lapping.

And the sound of voices…two voices…a man and a woman were speaking.

She struggled to sit up as the velvet drape the cover the entrance was pushed aside.

The candle threw flickers of light across his mask as he entered, a woman beside him.

The lady was fine-boned; she had the poise and build of a dancer. A long braid of dark gold hair was wound around her head like a crown.

She held out her hand to Helene and smiled.

"He tells me you are hurt, Comtessa."

"Yes, my ankle…I fell…but who are you."

"I am Madame Giry," the woman answered as she turned up the end of the cape and eased off Helene's shoe.

"I was the ballet mistress here," she went on, rolling back the torn black stocking to reveal the swelling and mottling, "before the fire."

She glanced at the Opera Ghost, a look of blame tempered by understanding. He did not answer her, but removed the violin and robe from the carved chair and, laying them on the lid of a low trunk, sat down.

Not once did his eyes leave Helene.

"You ankle isn't broken," Madame Giry told her, "trust me. I know a great deal about sprained ankles and the like. But I will need something to bid it with."

"Take one of my shirts, Madame Giry," the Opera Ghost said, gesturing towards the armoire.

As she drew a shirt from the drawer, she whispered to him.

"There's a very large splinter in her ankle. I shall have to remove it. It will hurt her."

He did not reply or rise as Madame Giry cut on his shirts into strips.

"Wait with her," she ordered as she left the room.

When the former ballet mistress left the room, Helene tried to sit up. A jabbing sensation mingled with the pulse ache of her ankle and she lay still.

The room was so simple, so unlikely…the plain mahogany furnishings, the vibrant Persian rug…a small casket-like box of Russian lacquer.

_Is this his room…his home…his refuge? _

She knew the woman had whispered something to the Phantom, but she could not hear what was said.

And she didn't dare look in his direction…it seemed as if a chill came from the corner where he sat…watching her.

A few minutes later, Madame Giry returned with a basin of hot water. She set it on the low table beside the bed and dipped a cloth in it.

"You've a little splinter in your ankle, Comtessa," she said and laid the warm, wet cloth on Helene's ankle.

"I will remove as gently as I can, but it will hurt a bit."

She picked up the small scissors she'd used to cut the shirt and grasped the exposed end of the splinter.

At first, Helene bit her lip to keep from crying out. It was impossible, though, as she felt the rough piece of wood being eased slowly…too slowly…out of her swollen flesh.

She reached out to grasp at the edge of the bed, but a man's hand…his hand…closed around hers.

"Scream, Comtessa, if you wish," he said softly, "no one will hear you here."

She tightened her fingers around his gratefully, but there was no need for her to scream. The splinter was gone and Madame Giry was dabbing at the wounded skin with a clean cloth.

He was still holding her hand when Madame Giry had finished binding the ankle.

"I will call on Nadir on my way home," she assured him.

She leaned down and patted Helene's arm.

"Try to sleep a little, Comtessa," she said as she folded the extra bandages and set them on the armoire, "I will ask an old friend to send something to bring down the swelling. And something for the pain, if you need it."

When Madame Giry had gone, he pulled his hand away.

Taking the candle from the dresser, he left her alone in that curious little room…alone in the darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness when he suddenly returned with the candle. In his other hand, he held something soft and white.

Setting the candle down on the table beside the bed, he drew back the cape covering her.

"You cannot sleep in your dress," he said, tossing the white garment at her, "this will do for tonight."

She sat up and unfolded it….it was a nightgown of fine white silk trimmed with fine lace.

To her surprise, he reached behind her and began to unfasten the minute jet buttons of her own dress.

She was startled by the action, but she did not resist. If he meant to harm her, he'd already had the chance to do so. And if he meant to harm her…there was nothing she could do.

When he had finished with her dress, he pushed the black satin open just enough to allow him access to her undergarments.

His fingers brushed lightly between her shoulder blades as he deftly unlaced the corset.

"I think," he said in a low voice, "you can manage the rest yourself now."

He paused in the doorway.

"If you need anything else, call for me. I will not be far from you."

He picked up the velvet robe and the violin from the trunk. As he turned to go, she called after him.

"Thank you, monsieur."

The nightgown was as lovely and as finely made as any she had in her own wardrobe. And it fit her well, though it was a little tight across her breasts.

She could not help wondering where it came from…who it belonged to.

She turned and blew out the candle. Settling back down on the pillows, she pulled the cape back over her.

Two things haunted her as she waited for sleep to overtake the pain.

The startled look in his eyes when she addressed him as monsieur…

And the warmth of his fingers trailing against her back.

It was a long time before sleep finally came to her.

The agony in her ankle seemed to scream throughout her body in the stillness of the room.

But it was her thoughts that kept her from resting.

She found herself recalling the day they brought her husband home to her, his face as white as the Phantom's mask.

She had been close to collapsing at the sight of him, but she held his weakening hand as he was carried up to their bed. She had stayed beside him as the elderly physician tried in vain to keep him from bleeding to death.

When it was over…when he was gone, she had to endure the truth of his murder…and the public confirmation of his infidelities.

She rolled onto her side with a tiny gasp of pain and tried to forget the sight of him in that ebony and silver casket, the mourners crowding the formal rooms of their villa.

But even as the tears began to dampen the pillow, she felt a strange sense of comfort and she finally let herself sleep.

* * *

He had come to her side in silence…she would never know that he stood near her, watching her.

He saw the tension that stretched across her face, the agitation that did not come from her injury.

How unlike his Christine…

He remembered watching her sleep in the crimson velvet of the swan bed. Her face had been so angelic, so untroubled.

He wanted to hate this woman for who she was…de Chagny's sister.

Her brother…that damned Vicomte had destroyed him…taken away his soul when he took his Christine away.

But he found he could not hate her…

He reached out to her, his fingers skimming along the curve of her shoulder without touching her.


	9. Chapter 9

Helene sat up in bed. There was no clock in his room, but she sensed it was nearly morning.

Pushing back the cloak that had served well as a blanket, she rose carefully, afraid the pain would return.

The room was silent now. But there had been music...she was certain of that.

And how to describe that music? It had gently penetrated her dreams, easing away the grief and memories with it sweetness.

She drew open the velvet drape and found herself staring down into a grotto. Water lapped at the rough edges of the stone and she remembered hearing talk of a lake beneath the Opera Populaire.

Beyond the lake, she saw a massive iron portcullis.

The rooms…if they could be called rooms…were cluttered with dusty hangings, mismatched furniture, piles of paper…sketches…sheets of music…

A few scattered candles provided a trembling illumination.

She winced as she made her way down the steps, her ankle throbbing as she put her weight on it. 

The violin lay on the floor by the settee. She had not imagined that exquisite melody, then. The music had been real.

The white mask lay beside the instrument. The dark, empty eye stared forlornly up at her.

He had fallen asleep, his long body stretched out on the faded gold velvet of the chair.

He was still dressed in a white shirt, black trousers, and polished leather boots. He had exchanged his brocaded waist coat…she saw it tossed over a chair along with his cravat…for the green velvet robe.

One arm lay across his chest, the other hung over the edge of the settee and his fingers seemed to trail lovingly towards the violin.

He shifted a little without awakening, turning his face from the shadow of the sofa's curved back into the wavering candlelight.

Helene took a step back from him, her hands pressed to her mouth to hold back a scream of shock and horror at the sight.


	10. Chapter 10

She grasped the edge of the chair to steady herself, praying that he would not awaken.

Half his face…almost the entire right side…was a rough and discolored mass of twisted flesh…a complete distortion contrasting with the near perfection of the left side.

His wig, too, had fallen away as he slept for his hair was no longer smooth and black. It was light brown, touched here and there with early gray. An uneven patch of bare scalp stretched back from his right temple.

Almost instinctively, she touched her own face.

She remembered the stories that had followed the disappearance of her brother and Mademoiselle Daae…that moments before the chandelier crashed and ignited the theatre, the young soprano had pulled the mask from the Phantom's face…that beneath the black domino, his face was hideous…a monstrosity.

The reality was as terrible as those stories.

Yet she found that she wanted to kneel beside him and lay her hand on that deformity, to gentle caress it and hold him close, her head resting against his chest.

The pain in her ankle had become too much to bear and she hobbled back to the steps. Supporting herself against the cold stone of the wall, she made her way back up to his room…to his bed.

She lay there, unable to drive that haunting image from her mind.

She had seen faces like that…in Sicily…the faces of the corpses hanging in endless rows in the Capuchin vaults where her own husband now lay.

But they were the dead, crudely embalmed and in various states of decay.

This man was alive…so very alive. She had felt the warmth of his hands…felt the danger of his anger and seen the hints of the kindness in him.

She ran her hand slowly over the smooth black wool of his cape.

It had been almost two years since Theo's death and she mourned his death sincerely, despite its circumstances.

Now, for the first time in all those long months, she let herself hunger for a man's embrace…for the feel of his body next to hers as she slept.

It was a hunger that even the awful sight of his face could not drive away.

_Is that why I came here…is that the real reason I came back to find him? _

_----------_

She awoke to the sound of his voice and found him standing over her bed.

He still wore that deep green robe, but his mask and wig were in place.

"Get up and dress. I will fasten your…your corset and gown for you. I will wait until you are ready."

He laid her clothes on the bed beside her and lowered the velvet curtain behind him.

Setting aside the pretty nightdress, she pulled on her chemise and corset.

"Monsieur, will you please help me lace it?"

He was behind her in a second…she had not even heard him enter the room again.

"Why did you call me monsieur," he said, working quickly to tighten the stays.

"Because I don't know what else to call you," she said with a tiny gasp as he pulled the strings a little too tight. It was clear that, despite the quick dexterity of his hands, he was not accustomed to lacing a woman's corset.

Theo had been quite skilled at such things.

"No one has ever called me monsieur before," he said in a pensive tone as he picked up her dress and eased it over her head.

"I don't understand," she said, grateful that he had taken care not to shift her weight onto her injured ankle.

He did not explain himself. When he had buttoned her dress, he picked her up and carried her from the room.

"It's all right," she protested, even as she slipped her arm around his shoulders, "I can manage."

She could not admit to him that she had indeed walked on her ankle, that she had seen his face as he slept.

He set her down in his own chair, at his own desk. He had already cleared a space on its cluttered surface. Papers, pens, sticks of sealing wax, a broken pocket watch, a rumpled cravat…everything had been pushed aside to make room for a small covered tray.

On another table, a small brass ibrik was balanced on a tripod over a flame.

"There is coffee, if you would care for some."

She nodded, finding the tray contained a brioche and a fresh plum.

"Now, Comtessa, if you will excuse me," he said, setting the cup of hot coffee in front of her, "I am expecting company this morning."

She felt a sudden disappointment. She had hoped he would take breakfast with her. Instead, she watched him walk up the steps toward his room, the long robe swirling out after him.

"Monsieur, thank you."

He stopped and looked back at her. And, for a second, it seemed as if he tried to return her smile.


	11. Chapter 11

When he had gone, she picked up the roll and broke off a piece. As she ate, she looked around this grotto…his home.

One large niche seemed to serve him as a library; it was crammed with books…there were hundreds of them. Stacked on rickety shelves and piled knee-high on the floor.

Another cavern contained a work table. Spread across it were sketches, pencils, brushes, paint boxes, and watercolors. She longed to get up and take a closer look at his pictures…many of them seem to be of a young woman with long chestnut girls…Mademoiselle Daae, no doubt.

At the center of the largest grotto, there was a massive pipe organ. It's polished dark wood with silver ornamentation reminded her…for a moment, at least…of her husband's casket.

She shook away that morbid image as he returned.

He had changed into a fresh white shirt and waistcoat of dark blue brocade. He was still adjusting his cravat as he came down the steps and took a seat opposite her.

At first, neither of them spoke. She saw him glance over at the portcullis from time to time.

What would he say…what would he do…if I told him that I know what lies beneath that mask?

"Monsieur," she said, finally, "you haven't told me your name."

For the first time since he had awakened her, he met her eyes and she saw that the question had caught him off guard.

"My name? My name," he said, as if it trying to remember something long gone, "is Erik."

He looked away as footsteps echoed through the stone vaults. A thin man with a dark complexion emerged from a walkway on the other side of the portcullis.

Erik rose and, with a nod of acknowledgement to the man, kicked a heavy iron lever. The gate rose slowly to admit the stranger.

The man greeted Helene with a courteous bow of his head, though it was clear her presence was not entirely expected. 

"Madame Giry told me you needed these," the man said in a heavily accented voice as he handed a packet to Erik.

"Thank you. They are for this lady here. I'm afraid she met with a small…accident on the stage."

"Another accident," the visitor said, giving Erik a sharp and searching look as he helped himself to some coffee.

"Always the suspicious one, Daroga," Erik said with a bitter laugh.

Sensing an odd tension between the two men, Helene interrupted.

"I assure you, it was indeed an accident. I was quite careless while walking across those rotting boards."

"Cometessa," Erik said as he unwrapped the packet, "this is Nadir. He is an old…friend. Nadir, this is the Comtessa di Sciacca-Licaria."

"A pleasure, Comtessa. A surprise, but a pleasure."


	12. Chapter 12

Erik walked back down to the gate with Nadir. It was apparent that they were discussing her and did not wish for her to overhear them.

She picked up the small knife from the tray and occupied herself with cutting the plum into slices.

When Nadir had left, Erik rejoined her. He finished opening Nadir's parcel and laid a small ivory jar on the corner of the desk.

A fragrant herbal scent filled the room.

"Erik, what is that?"

"Something for your ankle, Comtessa. Nadir's servant is quite knowledgeable about such things. It will bring down the swelling and help the skin to heal."

"You've known him a long time, haven't you."

"Yes, Madame, too long."

There was something in his voice that made it quite clear that he did not wish to discuss his friendship with Nadir.

She held out the tray of plum slices to him.

'Have some, Erik."

He took one, though it was clear he accepted it merely to humor her.

"Now, Comtessa," he said, offering her his hand, "do you think you can make it to the settee or shall I carry you again?"

She would have liked to feel herself swept up into his strong arms again and to rest her head against his chest. But the chair was so close…

She rose and took his hand.

"I can walk, I think."

When she was seated on the settee, he knelt in front of her and she couldn't help blushing as he pushed her black skirt up to her knees.

He unwrapped the bandages from her ankle. He said nothing, but opened the ivory jar and carefully dabbed the thick salve onto her skin.

His hands were so gentle and she remembered the bruises he'd left in her arms that day she first faced him on the shadowy ruined stage.

"Why did you come back, Comtessa," he said at last, wrapping a fresh bandage securely around her ankle.

_Because I am lonely…because something…right or wrong…draws me to you. _

"Erik," she said softly, letting one hand rest on his shoulder, "I have news of Christine Daae."

When she saw the sudden flash of hope in his deep green eyes, she almost regretted what she must tell him.

"I had a letter from my brother. It was written months ago, but it reached us only yesterday."

She took a deep breath and forced herself to go on.

"Erik, they are married…my brother and your Christine are married now."


	13. Chapter 13

He was silent and knotted the bandage as if he had not heard her.

When he had finished, though, he shrugged her hand from his shoulder and rose. He tossed the jar carelessly onto the desk and walked down to the edge of the lake.

She saw that one hand was pressed to his face, covering the hard features of his mask.

Even from where she sat so helplessly, she could see his entire body shake with an barely suppressed sob.

"No," she heard him say in a voice with broke her own heart, "no, Christine…nooooooooooooooo!" 

She wanted to rise and run to him, to twine her arms around him and comfort him. Yet she was sure he would not permit that. It was better to wait, to let him vent his grief.

"Noooooooooo," he screamed again, his voice echoing weirdly off the stone walls and cutting into her soul.

She rose, then, and leaning on the furniture, made her way to the steps. They were too steep for her to descend, even with assistance.

"Oh, Erik," she said, reaching out towards him, "Erik, I am sorry."

He looked up at her and she saw the absolute anguish in his eyes.

There were no tears as he reached up and took her hand.

"What do you know of these things, Comtessa?"

"Believe me, Erik, I know. My loss is not like yours…but I know…oh, mio Dio, I know." 

He did not let go of her hand as he came up the steps to her. 

"You should not try to walk on your ankle," he said in a suddenly calm voice.

As he lifted her into his arms once again, she felt the pounding of his heart and she pressed her forehead against his neck.

_Don't ever let me go, Erik…don't let me go, please… _

He did not bring her back to the divan, but carried her up to the swan bed and set her down there.

To her amazement, he sank down onto his knees before her and let his head rest on her lap.

"She was…she was so beautiful and innocent…I was her teacher…she believed that I was her Angel of Muisc. Until she knew…then she thought I was a monster…she didn't know that I would have given her whatever she asked…and, in the end, I did…I would have killed your brother…but I let him go…because I love her…and I didn't want to hurt her…" 

There was nothing she could say to him, no words of hers would ease that sorrow.

Leaning over him, she kissed his forehead softly and embraced him. His arms were around her waist, clinging to her as if she were his last link to life and her hair fell over him, soft and tangled.

They remained like that, still and silent, for a long time.


	14. Chapter 14

_Until she knew…then she thought I was a monster… _

Helene looked down at Erik. Her skirt was now quite wet with his tears and the left side of his face remained hidden in the black silk. She saw only his mask.

She knew that Christine Daae must have seen him without it before that night of the fire and that his distorted features had terrified the young woman.

"Poor Erik," she whispered, gently stroking the smooth white leather.

He looked up at her then as if he could not get used to hearing his name. She laid her hand on his damp cheek.

"Erik, I know why you wear the mask. I saw your face last night."

He caught her wrists and held her hands still against him.

"And you didn't scream? You didn't try to run away?

"I'm still here with you, Erik. I wouldn't have run, even if I could."

He did not let go of her wrists as she carefully pulled the mask from his face. She let it fall to the floor and his wig joined it.

"How did this happen," she said, touching his temple.

"I don't know," he said, closing his eyes as her fingers traced down his cheek, "I was born this way. My own mother would not even look at me without a mask."

She felt her heart tighten with anger. How could any woman be so cruel…his mother…Christine Daae… 

She wanted to curse them both, the way she'd heard Sicilian women cursing.

Instead, she leaned closer to him and kissed him, tasting the salt of his tears mingling with the sweet hints of plum juice.

He let go of her wrists, tangling his hands into her hair as he responded to her hungrily.

"No woman has ever kissed me willingly," he whispered, breaking away from her at last. As he spoke, he traced to contour of her lips with one finger. 

Then he freed himself from her arms and rose.

There was a curious music box on a pedestal in the corner of the chamber. He laid one hand on the velvet-robed figure of a monkey.

"Forgive me," he said.

He stooped to pick up his mask from the floor and pressed it back onto his face.

"Forgive me," he repeated as he walked away.

He strode down the steps to the organ, seeming to forget that she was still there…sitting on the edge of the swan bed, her head bowed and her hands grasping the velvet coverlet.


	15. Chapter 15

She closed her eyes and listened as he played, listen to his sorrow and his anger echoing through the grottos.

It was a rage of the heart, resonant with self-destruction.

She still tasted his tears of her lips, salty and intoxicating. It was like a drug and she rose, forgetting her ankle completely as she stumbled down the steps to the organ.

She pushed his hands from the keys and edged her body between the bench and the instrument.

She kissed him again, letting her tongue eagerly exploring his mouth as he pulled her onto his lap.

"Erik, I want you," she murmured against his neck, "let me make love to you."

He made no move to resist her as she tugged away his cravat and waistcoat, but let his lips brush the smooth curve of her throat as she pushed herself closer to him.

"Comtessa…"

"No, Erik…Helene. My name is Helene. Say it, Erik," she begged him, "oh, please say it. Please say my name."

"Helene, Helene," he whispered, his voice ragged and breathless with need as her fine-boned hands worked feverishly at the buttons of his shirt.

Her mourning gown seemed so tight, so restraining…she longed to be free of it. He must have sensed it because, holding her steady with one hand, he drew a slim knife from the top of his boot.

With one quick stroke, he cut through the snug black bodice. A second later, he had sliced through the heavier satin of her corset and the chemise beneath it.

He threw the blade aside, his hands suddenly trembling as he pushed open the ruin garments and laid his palms against the softness of her full breasts.

She gave a little cry when she felt his touch on her bare skin, his fingers kneading her flesh.

But it was not enough and they both knew it as her own hands slid down his chest. She could feel his arousal through the heavy fabric of his trousers, hot and hard against her thigh. 

"Erik," she repeated, desperate to feel him within her, "let me make love to you…now."

He nodded and rose, keeping his arms tight around her as he carried her back…not to the swan bed…but to his own little room.


	16. Chapter 16

Erik laid her down on the bed as if she were too fragile and not quite real. But for Helene, he was the only reality she knew.

In the darkness, she heard the rustle of fabric as his trousers fell to the Persian carpet. Her carefully drew off the remainder of her garments and they swished to the floor beside his.

"Erik, light the candle and take off your mask. I want to see you. It won't be enough just to feel you."

She closed her eyes as she heard the rough hiss of a wick catching flame. The bed gave a dull creak and she felt the weight of his body against hers.

When she turned to look at him, she saw that his face was still covered by the mask and she reached out to take it from him.

"No, Helene…let it be."

She nodded. He was still afraid that she would recoil at the sight of his face. He could not yet trust her to look at him without revulsion.

She caressed his face for a moment before kissing him, her hands gliding down over his shoulders to trace the shadows cast by that single candle.

She needed him so much…it was almost too much to bear. She had never wanted a man more than she did Erik…it was an urgent hunger that seemed on the edge of madness.

She pushed him onto his back, running her fingers slowly down the length of his torso as she knelt over him.

Her hair cascaded down like silk over his thighs as she caught his hands again and led them back to her body.

"Just touch me, Erik," she pleaded, leaning forward to press her lips against his jaw, his throat, his chest.

She let herself look down at him at last and felt a little tremor race through her veins. 

Her husband has been considered generously proportioned, as had the one lover she had taken to spite him. But their manhoods could not compare to the one that burned hard against her now.

She allowed herself a second fear…it was almost as if she had never been with a man before.

Then she spread her palms against his shoulders, bracing herself as she lowered herself down.

One of his hands was pressed against the small of her back to steady her as the other wandered over her body.

"Erik! Oh, mio Dio,.Erik," she moaned, slowly taking the length of him within her.

She was still for a moment as he reached up to touch her face, his fingers roaming from her forehead to her lips. 

Feverishly, desperately, she began to move her hips against him as she heard him calling her name over and over again.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out as her body shook with unimagined pleasure. And remembered his assurance of the night before… 

_Scream if you wish, Comtessa. No one will hear you here. _

She gave in, hearing her own voice ragged with ecstasy as his body thrust hard up to meet hers. She felt him shudder as the sudden and raw heat of his release tore through her.

She collapsed against his chest, knowing that she had what she had wanted so badly…and knowing that it was not enough.


	17. Chapter 17

Their bodies were still tangled together when Helene opened her eyes. Her entire body ached and her ankle seemed to strain against the tight bandage. 

Erik's arms were around her, one hand heavy and possessive on her hip.

The candle had burned so low and the dying light gave a luminous glow to the sheen of cooled sweat on his skin.

_I want to stay here forever...just like this...in this bed...in his embrace. _

With a raspy sputter, the candle flickered out and she wondered why her own face was damp with tears.

His hold on her tightened and his lips brushed against her cheek. 

"Thank you, my sweetness," he whispered and those dreams...the dreams that had tormented her every day since that first frightening encounter with the Opera Ghost came back to her.

"Oh, bless the night," she thought, curling closer to him.

----- 

In the morning, she found a gown laid out on on the chair. An afternoon dress of fine burgundy wool. Beneath it lay a silk chemise. 

She was alone in the bed, but the smell of fresh coffee drifted through the velvet drape.

She sat up and tested her ankle. It hurt, but it was not unbearable and she managed to dress without calling for him. Like the nightgown, the clothing was just a bit too small...and she knew it was meant for Christine...and never worn.

She found her ebony comb lying on the armoire beside the spent candle and she did her best to twist her hair into a neat coil.

He was at his desk when she ventured out of the bedroom. He rose when he saw her and reached for her, one gloved hand gently cupping her jaw...so careful not to touch her bruised cheek. 

"It's time you returned home, Comtessa," he said, not concealing the craving in his eyes.

She leaned against him, hiding her face against his black cravat.

"Let me stay with you, Erik. For a little longer."

"No, Helene. There is a carriage waiting for you outside. You need to go back...for now. If you are gone too long, they will search for you...if they come here..."

She understood. The world probably thought him dead in the fire...she would not betray him. 

Despite her protests that her ankle was not troubling her, he would not let her walk.

He carried her through a dim passageway and up a flight of stone steps. Minutes later, she found that they were in the theatre's foyer.

He set her down, but kept her close for a moment.

"Will you come back to me?" 

She answered him with a kiss and he pressed a key into her palm.

"You need not use the trap door this time," he said, his hands cupping her breasts through the tight dress, "go to the Rue Scribe. There is a door there."

"I'll return as soon as I can. I promise you, Erik," she said, reluctantly pushing herself out of his embrace.


	18. Chapter 18

Helene closed her eyes as the carriage departed from the Place de l'Opera. She didn't want to leave him. She wanted to order the driver to stop, to turn back.

She knew this brief separation was necessary, though. If she vanished like her brother, there would be a search…her driver would have told them that was where she had gone…

She had hoped that she could return home unnoticed, but that turned out to be impossible. As the carriage pulled up in front of the de Chagny house, her father was at the door.

He pushed past the footman and helped her step out.

"Helene, what happened," he said, guiding her up the steps to her mother, "we were so frightened…first Raoul…then you…"

"I am fine," she reassured them, hoping that they did not look too closely at her appearance, "I fell and twisted my ankle. But a friend found me and took me in for the night."

She did her best to answer their questions, neither lying nor telling them the truth. To her relief, they were so glad to have her safely home that they accepted her vague explanations.

Finally, she limped back to her own bedroom, shutting the door against the world and refusing the help of her maid.

When she saw herself in the mirror and was amazed that they had believed her.

Her hair was tangled, her face bruised, her lips still tender from that final crushing kiss in the foyer.

She fell asleep with the key clutched in her hand.

* * *

Erik picked up the torn black gown, remembering how he had slashed it in his desperate need to bare her skin to his touch.

If it were not the silk dress in his hands, he would have thought it was a dream.

No woman would willingly come to him like that…like a sacrificial angel.

It was only pity that sent her into his embrace…pity or depravity.

He laid the dress carefully on the carved chest and eased the mask from his face. Laying it down beside her gown, he went down to his work table.

He looked at the pictures of Christine that surrounded him there.

She had denied and betrayed him. Why shouldn't he accept the solace that Helene offered him too willingly?

He turned away from the portraits, not wanting to see those innocent and trusting eyes.

Mindless of his boots and trousers, he strode down into the lake and waded out to the portcullis.

He'd had that damed Vicomte at his mercy…bound to the gate, the noose around his throat.

How ironic that it should be de Chagny's own sister…

He leaned against the cold, damp iron.

"She won't return," he told himself, "she won't return."


	19. Chapter 19

The next morning was Sunday and Helene sat beside her family in the small chapel. For the first time in many weeks, the mood of the family was light. Raoul's note and her own safe return had done much to relieve her parents.

When the time came to approach the altar rail to receive communion, she did not move. She ignored the curious glances.

_I am tired of being the virtuous widow. If last night was a sin…so be it. _

After Mass, she called for her maid and asked for her valise. She packed on her own, taking a nightdress and undergarments, her brushes…and a green silk gown. She did not to wear the clothes meant for Christine.  
_  
I have had enough of mourning… _

She went down to luncheon and pretended she did not see the surprise looks from her parents when she entered the room dressed in dark rose silk instead of her proper black.

They were even more startled at the end of the meal when she laid aside her napkin and told them she would be away for a few days, perhaps more.

"I am going to visit a friend," was the only explanation she offered them as she rose.

An hour later, she stepped from the hired carriage at the entrance to the Rue Scribe. She paid the frowning driver and, carrying, her valise, went in search of the door.

She found it…a forlorn portal set deep into the wall. She turned the key in the lock and, as the door swung open, she saw than the heavy hinges were freshly oiled.

As she descended deeper and deeper into the narrow corridor, she had the odd feeling that she was going home…knowing that at any moment, she would emerge into the grotto and find him there…waiting for her.

His back was turned when she at last stepped through a narrow arch and into the candlelight. He had been tuning his violin, but set it aside when he heard her footsteps.

He turned slowly, as if he expected to see only emptiness.

She let her valise fall to the floor and held out her arms to him, closing her eyes as he pushed her back against the wall.

"I didn't think you'd come back to me," he said between frantic kisses.

"But I am here, Erik," she answered, her hands sliding beneath his jacket, "I am here now."

"You didn't have to…"

She laid her fingers against his lips to silence him.

"Yes, I had to return to you."

He lead her down to the setteee, and pulling her onto his knee, leaned his face on her shoulder.

"Your ankle?"

"It still hurts a little, but I can walk…your friend's medicine helped. Thank him for me."

He took her hand and drew off her heavy gold wedding band.

"You are a widow," he said, tossing the ring onto the desk.

She nodded.

"Talk to me, Helene. Tell me about your husband," he said, leaning back and pulling her down to rest against his chest.


	20. Chapter 20

His request caught her off guard and she looked up at him.

"Tell me about him, Helene," Erik repeated, cradling her closer.

"I suppose it was an arranged marriage, to be truthful. Both our families wanted the match. Theo's mother, you see was French…a friend of my own mother. His father was a count with large estates in Sicily. When we were wed, it pleased both of our families."

"How old were you when you married him?"

"Seventeen.."

"And how old are you now?"

"Twenty-five."

"Still so young, then," he said, working the silver pins from her hair and twining a heavy lock around his fingers.

"The wedding was held a week after my birthday. And then he took me home to Sicily. He had a beautiful villa there. From our bedroom and from parts of the gardens, you can see across the valley to Mount Etna."

"I was very much in love with Theo. He was so good to me and treated me as if I were a queen. Even when I learned that he was keeping several mistresses…in Licaria and in Palermo, I still loved him."

"He was unfaithful? To _you_?"

She shifted her weight so she could let her head rest on his chest and feel the steady beat of his heart against her cheek.

"Yes. And, in time, I played his game. We went to a ball in Messina. I found him the garden's with our host's daughter. When we returned home, I took a lover…one of his own good friends. It was only for a few weeks…I didn't care for him, I didn't really want him…it was only to spite Theo."

She raised her head and met Erik's eyes, her hand finding his.

"Please, Erik," she said, her voice ready to break, "I don't want to talk any more…I want you to…"

He shook his heard as he pressed her palm to his lips.

"Then one day, he was carried home to me. He had gone to visit a woman…the wife of a young merchant in Licaria. Her husband came home and found them together. The man stabbed Theo…they brought him home to me and he bled to death in my arms."

Erik pushed her up so that she was sitting beside him. He said nothing, his thumb traced slowly along her cheekbone and she was amazed that, for the first time, she could speak of that day without a sickening rush of grief.

"Then, as I adjusted to living alone in the old villa, I got the telegram telling me that Raoul had vanished. It gave me a pretext to come home."

There was nothing else for her to say…the truth had been told.

"Helene, was he handsome?"

"Yes, he was," she said quietly, "Theo was the handsomest man I knew."

He let her go and she heard him cursing under his breath, the rage and hate filling his eyes again.

"And you, Erik," she said, laying one hand on his smooth, warm cheek, "are the most beautiful man I have ever known."


	21. Chapter 21

""No, Helene, you don't mean that," he said, bowing his head against her as his fingers ran along the edge of her bodice where cloth met skin.

"Erik, I have no reason to lie to you," she told him, rising and pulling him up to face her, "and I swear now that I will never deceive you."

She found the edge of the mask and slowly eased it from his face. Then she drew off his wig.

"Tonight, Erik," she said, running her hands through his hair, "there must be nothing between us."

"Come to me, Helene. Come to me now."

The desire in his voice was heavy, almost tangible in the stillness of the room, and she wondered that she did not melt like a waxen doll in his arms.

* * *

Her gown spread out across the floor like a silk flower, his clothes tossed carelessly beside it.

They knelt facing each other in the crimson luxury of the swan bed and she let her lips wander over his chest, savoring the smooth skin beneath the dark curls.

Her palms skimmed up over his shoulders, feeling his muscles tense as she found the thick scars that crossed his back.

"Tell me what to do, Helene," he said, his voice strangely plaintive.

"Just touch me, Erik," she whispered against his ruined cheek, "just _touch_ me."

He did as she asked, his hands seeming to envelope her entire body.

Trembling almost beyond all control, she grasped his wrist and guided his hand lower. Her moans quickly turned to hungry cries as his fingers explored her.

"Please, Erik," she pleaded him feverishly, her nails digging into his arms, "I need to feel you inside me…please."

He pushed her down against the scarlet pillows and she parted her legs beneath him, gladly accepting the crushing weight of his body on her own.

He did not enter her at first, but gently parted the soft flesh and caressed her until she screamed his name over and over, begging him for mercy.

Then, suddenly she had what she wanted as he lifted her hips and buried himself within her.

The emptiness was gone, replaced by the throbbing heat of him. She arched her body against him, encountering each thrust, trying to draw him deeper and deeper into to her.

When she opened her eyes and met his, it seemed as if the whole world was breaking around her…the shattered pieces falling away until there was nothing left but him.

She found herself resting against him and knew that she must have fainted in those last moments of passion.

He was asleep, but one of his hands lay on the curve of her inner thigh. She sighed, noticing how perfectly their bodies fit together.

So lightly, she reached up and traced the peaceful smile on his lips.

_And if I let myself fall in love with him…what then?_


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-two

He leaned on his elbow and looked down at the woman sleeping beside him.

Her dark blonde hair was spread out, covering the pillow and her upper body. The bruise that had discolored her cheek after the fall through the trapdoor was fading fast, her skin was still rosy from the night…

He could see her brother's features in her own. Yet, somehow, he found it so easy to forget that this woman was a de Chagny by birth, that she shared the same blood as the Vicomte…with Christine's husband.

For the first time since his childhood, when some poor old priest tried in vain to teach him right from wrong, he found himself praying.

_Don't let her leave me…don't let someone take this woman from me…let her stay with me forever. _

He wanted to see her smile, for her to open her eyes and smile at him.

Instead, he kissed her damp forehead and, settling back down on the bed, gently gathered her in his arms.

* * *

In the morning, she awakened alone. She rose and found her valise lying on the floor next to the bed.

Slipping into her nightgown, she went down the steps and saw no sign of Erik.

_Of course, he must leave the opera house every now and then… _

The stone was cool and smooth beneath her bare feet as she went up to the alcove where the pipe organ loomed. A portfolio lay closed on the rack and she flipped it open, seeing pages and pages of a musical score written in a heavy, almost violent hand.

On the work table, she found more portfolios…filled with sketches and paintings. Some were costume and set designs, others were curious architectural pieces…but most were portraits of Christine Daae.

Looking at those pictures, she could not stop herself from remembering the anguish in his voice when she told him of Raoul's marriage to the soprano.

_He still loves her…don't ever forget that. _

For a moment, she felt guilty looking through his things…would he be angry if he found her there, rifling idly through his memories?

Before she could set down the pictures, she felt his gloved hand on her shoulder.

He saw what she was holding, but he said nothing. He reached around her and took the heavy folder from her. Laying it down on the table, he turned her to face him.

"Where were you, Erik," she asked him, standing on tiptoe to kiss him and press her cheek against his mask.

"Surely you didn't miss me," he said, smiling as he ran his hand along the length of her torso until it rested against the small of her back.

"Of course I did!"

"I had some business to see to," he said, laughing softly at her, "you look so beautiful this morning."

"And you, Erik..."

"No, Helene. Don't say it again."

* * *

Later, she curled up on the sofa and watched him as he worked.

He was seated at the organ, testing a bit of a melody before reaching for a pen and scrawling something on the page in front of him.

From time to time, Erik would glance back at her…as if he could not quite believe that she was really there with him, wrapped in the dark velvet of his robe.

There was a closeness in the silence between them, as strangely intimate as the lovemaking of the previous night.

_I've never surrendered like that before…I let myself go so completely…why is it different with him? _

"Erik, will you play that for me?"

"Sometime," he said, setting the music aside and rising.

Coming down to her, he held out his hands to her.

"It's late, Helene," he said, "and I'm afraid you did get much sleep last night."

As she let him draw her to her feet, she blushed. And she realized that he was blushing, too.

"Please, Erik, take off that mask," she said, tracing her hand along its smooth edge.

"No, Helene, I won't make you look at me. I won't torture you like that."

Before she could protest, he laid one finger against her lips to hush her.

"Helene, why are you here with me? What do you want from me?"

_Oh, Erik…I want everything from you… _

"What do you want from me," he repeated, his voice oddly plaintive.

"I want what we have at this moment, Erik…this closeness…this…oh, I don't what to call it…"

He was silent for a moment and she thought she saw a tear shining in the shadow of his mask.

"There are certain things, Helene," he finally said so quietly that his voice was almost obscured by the constant lap of water on stone, "that I can never give you. Don't ask for what I cannot offer."

She heard both regret and warning in his low words. She understood what he meant…that no matter happened between them, his heart still belonged to her brother's wife.

"Come to bed, Erik," she said, unable to answer, to promise that she would be content.

He did not make love to her and she was glad of it, for she was indeed very tired. He only held her close and she heard him whisper against her neck as she drifted into sleep.

"My sweetness."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-three

A strange sound disturbed her and she sat up in bed.

It was unlike anything she had ever heard, a cross between a child's cry of terror and a scream of painful rage.

Erik had let go of her and, with one tense hand, he seemed to claw desperately at the mask which lay askew on his face.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, "I'm sorry…please…don't make me!"

She knew he was still asleep, drawn into some nightmare…recalling some horror that she couldn't begin to imagine.

Carefully, she pulled his hand from his face and drew off his mask.

"Hush, Erik, hush," she said, soothingly as she caressed his cheek, "hush, no one will make you. I won't let them."

She cradled him in her arms, let his head rest against her breast.

_Il mio Dio, what has the world done to him? What did they do to him? _

Ever so slowly, she felt his body relax against hers, but she did not let him go.

* * *

In the morning, she opened her eyes to see him dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed. There was no sign of the night's torment on his face.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

"Erik, have you been here very long?"

"I was watching you sleep," he admitted, "for a little while."

"I hope you weren't too bored," she laughed, sitting up and throwing her arms around him.

"No, I could have watched you forever," he told her, "forever."

"Shall I go back to sleep then," she teased, running her hand over the fine wool of his jacket.

"No," he said, his voice becoming serious, "there's something I need to say to you."

He paused, guiding her hand up to his mask.

"Helene, thank you."

"For what, Erik," she asked, trying to feel the warmth of him beneath the smooth leather.

"For last night."

She couldn't answer him. She was certain she would never forget the pain she'd heard. She gave in and let herself cry.

He tipped her face up towards him. He kissed her, hesitantly at first, letting himself taste damp, saltiness of her skin.

As he laid his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down onto the pillows, the look he saw in her eyes frightened him.  
_  
Don't let her love me…I couldn't stand it… _

He pulled off her nightgown and buried his face against the softness of her breasts.

_Don't let her love me…no one can love me now. _

She sank willingly under the weight of his body, twisting her body against his and sighing his name as he took her ever so slowly.

But he knew it was too late. The realization struck through to his soul as he felt her succumbing to him.

She was already in love with him.

He had seen that look in Christine's eyes when she flew into the Vicomte's arms that night…

_This woman loves me…and I cannot love her in return. _

* * *

Later, he brought her up to the rooftop. He had not been up to the leads since long before the fire, since the night of Christine's betrayal.

It was a cold gray day and the clouds were thick and close as they walked slowly along the parapet.

He saw her pull her shawl closer and shiver a little.

"Are you cold, Helene? We can go back."

_Erik, Erik…there is no going back… _

"No, Erik, I'm not very cold. I'd rather stay a little longer. I'd rather stay up here and talk."

She wanted to know everything about him. She wanted to know every pain, every horror life had inflicted on him. But she knew if they went back, she would find herself in his bed.

She wanted that more than anything, but she also want his trust.

He let his cape swirl around them both and they found a place to sit beneath a badly damaged statue.

"Erik, that night…the first night…you asked me to talk to you, to tell you about my marriage."

She hesitated, almost afraid to ask.

"Please, I want to know about you now. I want to know everything."

His arm tensed around her waist.

"No, you don't want to know everything."

Beneath the shelter of his cape, she place her hand over his.

"I do, Erik. I want you to trust me enough to tell me everything. Please, don't spare me."

"You don't know what you are asking of me!"

She shrugged off his arm and jumped to her feet.

"If you won't tell me, Erik, I shall go home. To Sicily."


	24. Chapter 24

He caught her by the waist and pulled her back down beside him.

"When you know everything, Helene, you _will _leave me."

"You think so, Erik? You tried to kill me the day we met. And, still, I came back to you."

He sighed, but the sound was lost in the wind and he wrapped the cape around her once again.

"Very well, Helene. But, if you hate me for hearing these things…"

"I promise you, Erik, I will not. Only tell me now."

"I have no memory of his father. I never saw him, never knew his name. My mother…my mother would not look at me unless my face was covered. She hated me…I am sure she did. One day…I don't know how old I was…she took me outside. I had never left the house before…I had never seen the sky except through a tiny window."

He stared up at the dull, cold sky and remembered the first time he'd felt the harsh spring sunlight on his skin as his mother walked briskly, almost dragging him along behind her.

"I stumbled once because she was walking too fast. She yanked me to my feet and hit me so hard my mask was knocked from my face. It was the first time I had been struck…and it would not…be the last!"

He grasped her hand as he spoke, his fingers tightening painfully around hers.

"I tried to pick up the mask because I knew she would be angry if she saw my face. But she pulled me along and said…and I cannot forget the spite in her voice…that I wouldn't need it anymore. Then a man met us. He was a huge man with a horrid beard and gold rings in his ears. He took me away…I never saw my mother again."

The pressure of his hand increased around hers.

"I don't know how many years I was with the traveling fair. I remember the beatings, the taunts from the children in the camp…the dirty cage."

_A cage… _

Those words chilled her from the heart out. She looked up at the unmasked side of his face in profile against the dull twilight.

"Yes, I was nothing but a freak in a carnival. A little more than an animal, but not nearly human. And, most of all, the thing I remember…the faces of the people when the man exhibited me. Some laughed, some just looked away. Most of them screamed. They screamed at the Devil's Child."

"Oh, Erik, Erik," she said, muffling her grief against his shoulder.

"One night, the fair came to Paris. I didn't earn as much as usual that evening and my owner began to hit me with a heavy club. There was a bit of rope caught on the edge of my cage. Somehow I managed to wrap it around his fat, filthy neck. And I killed him."

He held up his free hand and looked at it in the fading light.

"Yes, Helene, the hands that have touched you have taken many lives…many, many lives."


	25. Chapter 25

She took his hand and brought in to her lips, kissing the palm as if it were a holy relic.

"Go on, Erik."

"When I let go of the rope, he gave an odd jerk and it was over. Then I looked up and saw a girl watching me. She had seen everything. I thought she would scream. But she didn't. She helped me run away…she hid me from the police here in this opera house."

He yanked at the ties of the cape and rose, leaving it draped around her. He strode to the edge of roof and looked back at her.

"That woman who bound your ankle…her name is Adele. She was the one who helped me. She was a ballet dancer here. She was just a child herself, only a few years my elder."

As he spoke, he climbed nimbly onto the scorched pedestal of an statue.

"At first, she found me a room above the chapel. Later, I found the lake and the caverns. I took refuge there…I felt safer there. Everything I knew came from this opera house. I learned to read from stealing books that I found in offices and dressing rooms. And I learned to love music. It was the only think that gave me happiness."

He sat down beneath the statue, hidden in the shadow of the angel's broken wings. She could not see him now, she heard only his voice.

"One day, I heard a little girl in the chapel. A tiny thing, not more than seven. With huge, sad eyes. She was all alone there, though it was quite late. She was praying out loud and I listened to her." 

There was a long silence as he watched the first random flakes of snow falling. He turned and looked back at Helene. She was sitting quite still, staring up at the darkness where he sat.

_How much more can I tell her…how much can she endure before she runs from me in disgust? _

"Her father had just died. He was a violinist…a friend of Adele's late husband. Adele had taken her to live in the Opera Populaire as he has wished. I heard her voice in the chapel that night, reminding her father that he had promised to send her an angel. An Angel of Music."

He leaned back and felt the chill of the statue through his clothing.

"I felt sorry for her. For the first time in my life, I felt…pity. I remained hidden in the shadows above her. And I answered her. I thought the poor child would smile if she heard the voice of that promised angel. So I sang to her. And she thought I was real…that her father had sent me to her."

"I only meant to do it once. But I saw the hope and happiness in her eyes as she looked about to see if her Angel was really there with her. So I…I sang to her."  
_  
Why am I telling her this?  
_  
"That little girl was Christine Daae. And it went on like that every night until I left the opera house. She would come to the chapel and I would sing to her there. Every night…until I left the opera house." 

Jumping down from the statue, he walked over to the parapet and looked out over Paris, looked beyond the city.

"All I had was this child who naively thought I was her Angel…and Adele who had concerns of her own. I needed more. So I ran away from this old theatre and, somehow, made my way to Russia. Along the way, I discovered that I had quite a few talents…languages, architecture, murder…yes, by the time I left Novgorod for Persia, murder had become an art for me."

He gripped the stone ledge to keep his hands for shaking with rage.

"Are you horrified yet, Comtessa," he said without turning.

Helene rose and, walking slowly because of the weight of the woolen cape, came to stand behind him.

"No, Erik. I am not."

Wrapping her arms around him, she leaned her face against his back, remembering the scars she'd touched there.

--------------- 

He didn't want to continue. He wanted to turn and take her into his arms again, to take her back across the lake, to make her forget his terrible story.

"You've heard enough, Helene."

"No," she said, not moving away from him, "I have not."

"I had entered the service of the Shah as an architect, but my skills were soon put to better use by the Khanum. I will spare you the details of the horrors I committed to please that woman. There were nights when I dreamed that I was drowning in an ocean of blood and tears. I would reach out for something to grasp, to save myself, but there were only bodies in that sea…the bodies of my victims." 

He felt her shudder against his back, but she did not let him go.

"Only two things kept me from total madness in those days. The first was opium. It let me forget…for a few blissful, hazy hours. The second was Nadir. He was the Daroga of Mazandaran, the Shah's chief of police. Why that man decided to befriend me I will never know."

"Both the Shah and the Khanum tired of me. They were temperamental beings and I knew far too many of their secrets. I had created many of those secrets for them. They ordered my arrest and execution. But Nadir risked his own position…his life, in fact…to save mine."

"Then I am indebted to him," she said so quietly that he could pretend her didn't hear her.

"I don't know why I can back to Paris. Perhaps it was because this opera house was the only sanctuary I knew. Perhaps it was because I missed the music I'd laid aside in the hell of Persia. So I came home and slowly, I became a ghost…the Phantom of the Opera, they called me. It was much more agreeable than being the Shah's personal assassin."  
_  
I must stop this…I can't tell her about Christine…the obsession that was more addictive than the Khanum's opium and my own bloodlust combined…the obsession that turned to love.  
_  
"One night, I went down to the chapel. I don't know what brought me there. I stood there alone and hidden, watching the candles flickering in that gloomy little room. Then two young women entered. One was Adele's daughter, Meg. The other…the other was Christine."

He paused and took a shaky breath.

_I'd rather throw myself from this roof than tell her these things…why am I torturing myself with this…why am I torturing her? _

"Meg only stayed a few moments and then she left. Christine was alone in the chapel. Alone, but for me. I made no move, no sound. But I heard her crying…she was crying for her Angel of Music! I never imagined she would have taken my little game so seriously…that she would have remembered it all that time, that she'd hoped I would return." 

He pushed himself from her hold and stepped up on the wide parapet. He turned to face her and threw out his arms."

"So I became her Angel again. What else could I do? All I ever wanted was to be human…not the Devil's Child, not an Angel, not a Ghost. I wanted a normal life, a wife who would love me…instead, I lived in the shadows and I watched her. She was just a chorus girl then…but I listened to her sing and I knew she could be so much more…if only she would try…I knew that she could outshine them all"


	26. Chapter 26

"So I became her teacher. I truly became her Angel of Music and she…she…became my obsession. I was determined to place the world at her feet. In the evening, after the rehearsals for the day were over, she would come to the chapel for her lessons."

Until this point, he had forced a certain calm into his word. But, now, he could no longer maintain that control over his own voice. He heard it begin to break as he went on.

"That's went the accidents began to happen. Little things meant to intimidate the managers and remind them that I was the theatre's ghost, that it would be unwise to ignore what demands I might make on them. Adele was my messenger, the only one I trusted enough."

"Did she know about Christine?"

"Of course, she knew," he snapped, "the chorus girls were under her direct supervision and she treated Christine like her own daughter. Yes, she knew…about the lessons, at least. The poor woman never realized the depths to which I was being dragged by an innocent girl!"

He seemed oblivious to the cold and wind as he spoke.

Looking up at him…at her lover…Helene saw that he had been broken. Not once, but over and over. Sometimes by others, sometimes by his own doing.

She reached up to him, offering him her hands. He did not take them. 

"Erik, you don't have to say any more."

"You asked to know everything, Helene. And you will know everything!" 

His green eyes seemed to take on a strange golden glint as the night enveloped the ruined theatre and the couple that stood on its desolate roof.

"I made certain that La Carlotta met with a little misfortune the morning of the annual Gala. A simple matter of a falling backdrop and she was gone. It was my Christine's chance…and she triumphed that night. We triumphed. Even the Emperor was captivated by her voice…the voice I had given her."

He leapt down from the parapet and grabbed her by her shoulders, his fingers digging into the cape.

"Then your brother came. I knew that night…when I saw her smile at him in that borrowed dressing room…that I had lost her. But I refused to believe that anyone could take her from me. I was her Angel…and I took her under my wings, I took her away. Until then, she thought I was only a spirit. She never once imagined that I was real, that I was a man." 

His grip on her shoulders grew tighter, but she kept her eyes fixed on his face even as it became too dark to see him clearly. 

"In Persia, they called me the Trap-Door Lover because of my fondness for devising such hidden portals. I had made sure there were many in my opera house. The mirror in that dressing room was one of them. I led her away through it and brought her across the lake. I thought that, perhaps, I could make her trust me…make her love me. And, for the briefest moments, I thought I could."

He let go her so abruptly she nearly stumbled and he yanked his mask away. 

------------------

He paused, breathing heavily. 

_When was the last time I felt the night air on my face…the last time I felt snow on my skin? _

He looked down at Helene, saw the tiny white flakes twinkling in her hair.

_It's so cold here…I should take her back now. _

"She saw my face, Helene," he said, numbly, "she took off my mask…just took it off without a word. When she saw that her Angel was nothing but a hideous demon, she could not forgive me or accept me…she could not look at me."

He seized Helene's arms and leaned over her, trying in vain to find some sign of revulsion in her eyes.

"Your brother…your brother…the memory of my face sent her straight into his arms. He offered her everything I could not. Right here…on this roof…he asked her to marry him. I was there…I heard everything! I heard her tell him of the horrible, deformed face that haunted her and I heard him comfort her."

She was caught between the chill stone of the pedestal and the heat of his body. She could feel his tension in every muscle as he pressed her back.

"Do you know what it's like to be betrayed like that, Cometessa? To have your heart torn from you by overheard words, by a kiss you were never meant to see?"

She knew. She could remember all too clearly finding her husband with another woman for the first time. But it had been worse for Erik…so much worse.

"You know the rest, don't you, Helene? The chandelier…your brother's disappearance….he risked his life to find Christine…and she…she kissed me…to save him. It was at that moment…when she came to me and kissed me…that I knew I loved her. That I love her. And when she left me, it was as if my soul….as miserable and twisted as it is…was taken from me, too."

Abruptly, he let her go and backed away from her. In his eyes, she saw something of the child he had been…beaten, caged, mocked, frightened, alone….

"You're going to leave me now, aren't you? Now that you know what I am…" 

He fell to his hands and knees on the snow-dusted leads. And that sight hurt her more than anything he had said to her.

She sank down beside him, doing her best to bring the cape around him as she wrapped her arms around, held him as close as she could. 

"Helene, Helene…love me. I cannot love you…but, please, Helene, _love me_."

She pushed the sweat-damped hair back from his forehead and began to gently kiss his face.

"Erik, I do love you," she whispered against his rough temple, "and I promise, I will never leave you alone."


	27. Chapter 27

He felt her shivering against him and the hands that stroked his face were cold. He felt the chill in his own body, too.

They were surrounded by total darkness now, but his eyes had long ago grown used to the absence of light. He stumbled to his feet and she rose, too.

"We…we'd better go back now," he said as he took her hand

He said nothing else as he lead her back across the roof to the narrow, rickety stairs that descended back into the theatre.

Her last words had left him shaken and speechless. They were words that he both feared and desperately needed. They confirmed what he had seen in her eyes, yet they still took him by surprise.  
_  
She only said it because I begged her to…because she pities me…she cannot mean it. _

But he remembered that she had also promised that she would never lie to him.

The realization came with a feeling of guilt, heavy and unfamiliar. He saw a selfishness that could not be denied or altered. She loved him willingly and he could not return that love.

Even when they had crossed the lake, he remained silent as she sank down on the settee. He drew the snow-dampened cloak from her and wrapped one of the velvet coverlets from the swan bed.

He remembered that he had left his mask on the roof. No matter, he had others…many others.

One lay on the desk before him.  
_  
What have I condemned this woman to? _

He laid his hand on the smooth, old wooden surface and bowed his head.

"Helene, forgive me…I had no right to ask you…I cannot make you love me any more than I could make Christine…"

He had not heard her rise and approach him. But her hand was on his arm and she pulled him around to face her.

"Erik, I am not Christine. And I love you."

She drew his face down to hers and, before he could say a word or even embrace her, she kissed him fiercely.

It seemed like a glorious eternity before she broke away from that kiss.

"You kept me up on the roof so long, Erik," she said lightly, molding her body against his, "that I am quite frozen. Will you warm me?"

"That, Comtessa,' he answered as he slipped his hands beneath the scarlet velvet, "is a task I shall be very happy to undertake."

* * *

He carried her up to the swan bed. Setting her down, his lips found hers as he reached around her back to unhook her gown.

She stopped him, though and shook her head.

"Not here, Erik."

She knew now that bed had been meant for Christine Daae. It was not her place, it never would be.

She took his hand and led him to his own small room.

It seemed an eternity before their clothing had been shed and she collapsed onto his bed, holding out her arms to him.

He sank down beside her, kissing her throat, her shoulder, the soft curve of her breast as he pulled her beneath him.

His palms moved in slow gently circles over her entire body. She closed her eyes, eagerly submitting his caresses. The feel of his skin against her swas too wonderful, too beautiful.

He pushed her legs apart with his knee and she opened herself to him willingly as the building desire within her became unbearable.

"Erik, please," she sobbed, hardly recognizing her own voice as she begged him, "please…please!"

"Please? Then tell me again…tell me you love me, Helene."

She opened her eyes and laid her hands against his chest.

"I love you, Erik…I love you…and I need you now…"

She sighed with relief as she felt him within her, her sighs quickly turning to cries of pleasure as he thrust deeper and deeper into her.

Finally, she felt him shudder against her…felt her own body shaken to her very soul.

As she clung to him, she suddenly wondered if they would conceive a child.

After a while, he drew the faded comforter over them both and, shifting her in his arms so that she was resting against him.

"Are you warmer now, Helene?"

"Yes," she said, smiling in the darkness, "much warmer."


	28. Chapter 28

Helene lay quietly in his arms and Erik found that by tilting his head just a little, he could see her sleeping face.

He brushed his fingers carefully against her cheek, remembering the first day he'd carried her down into his lair…how he'd reached out, wanting to touch her and not daring to.

_Did I know it would come to this? _

He tried to remember if there had been a time in his life when he'd felt this peace. Looking back across the years of rejection and abuse, of anger and bloodlust, of hate and obsession, he could not remember a single moment.

There were fleeting times when he'd come close…when he was lost in his music or in the senseless haze of opium.

_I wonder…does happiness feel like this? _

He felt her sigh, her breath so soft against his bare skin, and knew she was awake. He whispered her name against her neck to be certain. She responded by entwining her hand in his.

"How long can you stay?"

"One more night. I told them I was going to visit a friend. I wouldn't want to alarm them with too long an absence. But I will return as quickly as I can."

"Thank you, Helene," he murmured, a slight tremor in his voice. He knew this time he had no reason to doubt…that she would indeed come back to him.

"Erik," she said, squeezing his fingers gently, "when I'm with you…when you make love to me…I feel as if you were the only one…and I wish to God you really were…that there had never been other men in my life."

As she spoke, she curled closer to him. Her face rested against his own disfigured cheek, he could feel her lashes flicker against his ravaged skin.

He took a deep breath, unsure how to answer such a bittersweet confidence.

"Helene, don't say things like that…"

But he felt her relax against him.

"Go back to sleep, Erik," she said, smiling and kissing his forehead before she let herself drift off again.

He had no choice but to do the same.

* * *

Helene's second sleep was not as easy.

She had meant what she said to him…she truly wished that he had been her first and only lover.

She had loved Theo, despite his almost incessant infidelities. She had not loved Stefano Scuderi, the lover she had listlessly taken in a fit of spite.

Both men had been handsome, wealthy, admired by their peers. Both men had said they loved her.

And she found herself regretting them both, wishing she could even forget them.

Her hand was resting on his wrist and she could feel the steady pulse of his life beneath the skin, beneath scars so thin she could have only imagined them.

It no longer matter that Erik did not love her, that he never would. He cared for her, at least, and he wanted her love. She would not be greedy and hope for what she could not have.

* * *

Two weeks later…

She was in the library alcove, examining the endless rows and piles of books. So many of them…French, English, Italian, German…some in languages she did recognize.

She selected a book from a pile…an Italian translation of Lord Byron's works. As she flipped idly through the worn pages, she felt his arms around her waist as he quoted the poet.

"She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and light meet in her aspect and her eyes."

She leaned back against him, turning to look up at him. He had finally given in to her requests that he not wear the mask when they were together.

"Will you read to me again, Erik?"

The previous evening, he had read to her from a book of ancient Persians poems until they had fallen asleep in each others arms on the settee.

"No, not tonight, Helene. Come with me."

He led her up the stone steps behind the organ to a smaller chamber which held an old piano…a beautiful rosewood instrument with mother-of-pearl keys.

"Do you play, Helene?"

"A little. Enough to amuse Theo's dinner guests. My cousin, Bethe, and I took lessons together when I was a girl."

"I should like you to play for me."

"Oh, I couldn't. It's been so long."

And how could she play for _him_? By now, he had played for her many times…his own compositions for the violin and the organ.

"Play for me, Helene," he said with false menace in his voice.

"Very well, Erik."

She choose a simple piece, a German love song that she had always been fond of playing for her friends.

As she played the melody on the luminous keys, the words played in her head.

Until that night, they had meant nothing to her.

_Through these nightmares I go, desperate, shattered, lonely…but I must not give up…I will go to the grave like a sacrificial angel who will not let you go…. _

She looked up at Erik, but he was watching the movement of her hands. His head was slightly tilted, his eyes dark with concentration as he let himself learn the unfamiliar notes.

"Whatever happens, Helene, do not stop playing."

He picked up his violin and accompanied her.

* * *

_Author's note - The song lyrics were borrowed from the song "For Sarah," from the English demo of "Tanz der Vampire."_


	29. Chapter 29

She wanted to stop playing, to simply be still and listen to him. But when she met his eyes, he quietly repeated his command.

Without warning, he laid down the violin and came to stand behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders.

Leaning over her, he let his face rest against her hair as his hands eased down between the bodice of her gown and her warm skin.

She faltered, missing a note.

"You'll have to start over, my dear," he said, his lips grazing her neck as he gently kneaded her flesh.

"Erik, I can't," she protested. His touch was too exquisite, there was no way she could concentrate on the music as he caressed her.

"Start over!"

She forced herself to comply as he removed one hand from her breasts and pushed her skirts up around her hips.

She made another mistake, but he did not seem to notice as his fingers parted her, seeking her most sensitive part.

She pressed back against his strong and unyielding body, her hands stilled against the keys. She could hardly remember her own name, let alone continue playing as he caressed her.

She writhed against his stroking hands, needing more and more of this sweet torture. And she struggled to unfasten her gown, given his one hand easier access to her breasts, her unbound hair and the fabric of his white shirt soft against her bare back.

"I want you now, Helene, _now_!"

"Do what you want with me, Erik."

With a low, almost savage growl, he caught her by her waist and pulled her from the piano bench and turned her to him.

Her skin was already flushed, her lips parted and her eyes half closed. Her dark blonde hair fell over her breasts, her dress gaping and falling around her middle.

For a second, he tried to calm himself and took her face between his hands.

_I don't want to hurt her._

But when he had kissed her, when he had tasted her again, all of his composure was gone.

_I need her…_

He could not wait to bring her back to the bedroom. He pushed her back against the wall, heard a faded velvet hanging tear as it was caught between her sweet body and the stone.

She wrapped her arms around him and nodded once.

Grasping her hips, he showed her no mercy thrust into the moist, tight heat of her. It was not until he felt her legs buckling, felt her on the verge of collapsing in his arms that he finally gave in to his own release.

Later, as he carried her still-quaking body up to the bedchamber, he heard her whisper his name.

"Erik, don't ever let me go."


	30. Chapter 30

Helene sat across the breakfast table from her parents. Philippe had returned to Paris once he learned that his younger brother was safe and was staying at the house until his own residence could be re-opened.

She sighed wearily as she glanced at the familiar faces.

_A few more hours…a few long hours and then you can return to him._

Not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to have a normal life with Erik, to see him seated across from her in a sunlit room.

"All I ever wanted was to be human," he'd said, "I wanted a normal life, a wife who would love me…instead, I lived in the shadows ."

_And you know that cannot be. Accept what you have and be content._

"I've received a letter from Raoul," her mother was saying, "he is coming back to Paris with his wife. He writes that he now believes that the danger to her has passed…whatever that means…and that he feels it is safe for them to come home."

Helene's hand knotted into a fist around her napkin.

_Erik mustn't know…he must not know!_

"I trust you will be here, Helene,", her father added, "to welcome your brother and his bride."

She saw her parents exchange looks with each other.

"Of course, I will," she responded with a forced smile.

When she had excused herself from the table, she could not help overhearing them.

"I'm worried about your sister," her father was saying, "these absences of hers are growing longer and more frequent. I can't imagine where she goes."

Above the hushed clink of the silverware, she heard Philippe answering him.

"She's probably taken a lover. No doubt he's a married man or someone entirely unsuitable. I don't like that idea any more than I like the idea of Raoul marrying a chorus girl. But Helene is a grown woman and a widow. There's nothing to be done about it."

She leaned against the carved newel-post of the stairs.

_Yes, brother…I have taken a lover. And you would consider him far worse than unsuitable. _

She walked back into the room, giving no sign that she had heard their words about her.

"I will be here when Raoul comes," she told them, "but once he is home, I mean to return to Sicily. I've been away from Theo's estates for too long."

* * *

That night, she lay in Erik's arms. Her body was exhausted from their love-making and she wanted only to rest.

"Erik, I want to stay here with you. I've told my family that I will be leaving for Sicily soon. But I am going to stay with you, if you will let."

"If I will let you," he answered, sitting up, "Helene, this is no place for you. It's nothing but a cellar beneath a ruin."

As sore and weary as she was, she sat and put her arms around him.

"Erik, you know that doesn't matter to me. I only want to be near you. I die a little each time I leave you."

"Helene, Helene, how much deeper in your debt would you place me? You have yourself to me, heart and soul and body. And I give you nothing in return."

As he spoke, he idly twined his fingers in her hair.

"If you won't let me stay here, we could go to Sicily."

He closed his eyes, inhaling the sweet carnation perfume she was fond of.

Her offer was so tempting. Many evenings, she had spoken to him of the lemon and almond groves, the smoky, sulfurous heights of Etna, the dark town of Enna where Hades had come to Persephone, the shimmering ribbon of water flowing through the Alcantara Gorge…

What would it be like to see those place with her to guide him?

But how long had it been since he'd left the opera house for more than a few furtive hours? How long since his flight from Persia?

He could not do it again.

"I can't, Helene…"

"Then I will stay here with you."

Without warning, she pulled him back down with her.

"Erik, take me again. But be gentle this time," she said with a smile.

"I thought you were tired."

"That's why I asked you to be gentle," she laughed.


	31. Chapter 31

Helene embraced her brother gladly, realizing this was only the second time she had seen him since her wedding day.

Then she looked at the girl beside him. No, not a girl…a young woman. A young married woman.

_So this is Christine._

The soprano was a pretty thing with long chestnut curls and a sweet, innocent face. At first, she seemed quite shy and nervous as she was introduced to her husband's family.

Helene fought against a bitter, choking wave of jealousy as she took Christine's hand.

She could see that her brother and his bride were very much in love with each other. The looks that passed between them made that so clear.

_If only Erik could forget her…_

"I am so sorry to hear that you are leaving soon, Madame," Christine was saying, "I would love to know you better."

"And I should like to know you better," Helene said, "but I shall come and visit when I can. And you mustn't call me Madame."

"Raoul tells us you have a very beautiful voice," the Comte de Chagny said, joining his daughter and new daughter-in-law at the window seat, "we would love to hear you sing before Helene leaves us."

Helene sighed. Her parents were quite disappointed by her supposed decision to return to Sicily. Philippe, on the other hand, quite bluntly stated that he was glad that she was going home, that it would put an end to whatever clandestine affair she was involved in.

_I could never explain things to them…I don't want a clandestine affair…I want him to love me…I want to be his wife…_

She envied Christine. She had both Erik's love …however unwanted…and a husband who adored her.

"Perhaps you could sing for them after dinner this evening, dearest," Raoul was saying to his wife.

Helene swore she saw a moment's hesitation in Christine's eyes, though she answered at once.

"Of course, I would be glad to."

-----------

That evening, the family gathered in the formal parlor as the maid lit the lamps.

"Raoul told me you play the piano, Helene," Christine said, opening the instrument, "will you please accompany me?"

As she took her seat on the mahogany bench, Helene could not help blushing. She found it quite impossible to look at the piano without recalling the night Erik had asked her to play for him…and the fevered aftermath of her poor little performance.

Christine listlessly paged through the folios of music. It was clear to Helene that she didn't want to sing, that she was only doing so to be polite.

"This one will do," she said, handing the sheets to Helene.


	32. Chapter 32

Helene knew she could not spend another night in the house where she was born and raised. She had to return to Erik. Tonight.

When the household had retired, she called her maid and asked the girl to pack her necessities in a little trunk, one small enough for her to manage on her own. She instructed the maid to have the rest of her belongings sent to a hotel near the train station. She would find away to have them brought to the Opera Populaire later.

Once her preparations were completed, she took a sheet of paper from her lap desk.

"Mariette," she said, handing the finished note to the maid, "you will give this to my mother in the morning. If they ask you about my sudden departure, tell them you brought me a telegram…that there are matters in Sicily involving my late husband's estate that require me to leave sooner than I had planned."

She drew on her cloak and pulled up the silk-lined hood.

"Please, call a carriage for me. Not my own. Have the porter hire one."

Christine's voice haunted her during the ride to the ruined theatre…to his home.

_I understand now why he loved her…loves her…why he can not simply accept that she does not love him…her voice is so very beautiful…too beautiful for this world…and that was his doing…his gift to Christine…the only thing he could give her. _

When the carriage had left her in the Rue Scribe, she unlocked the door and pushed her little trunk inside. She left it and ran down the dim passage way to find him.

He was playing the violin, his face unmasked, his hair rumpled, his eyes closed.

She did not dare disturb such perfection, though she wanted nothing more than to collapse into his arms.

The melody was like so many others he had written. Rich, dark, melancholy, yet tinged with sweetness.

She closed her own eyes and leaned against the wall, feeling the music as she would feel his hands on her bare skin.

Then it stopped and she saw him lay down the violin. He had not heard her entrance. 

She said his name, letting herself imagine for only a second that the look in his eyes when he turned was one of love and not merely surprise.

He did not question her sudden appearance, though he was not expecting her to return so soon. He came up to her, taking the steps two at a time.

She looked up at him, noticing again how tall he was, how he towered over her as he pushed the hood back from her face.

He slid his arms beneath her cloak and held her, his strong body seeming to completely envelop her weary one.

"Sanctuary," she whispered against him.

It was only then that he kissed, over and over again. 

--------------------------------

She had been so tired that she had not undressed for bed. She had not even removed her shoes, but fell asleep in his arms.

When she finally opened her eyes, wincing against the prodding of her stays, she sensed it was late morning. But she didn't want to disturb the peaceful contact between them.

By now, her family would have read her note. It hurt to lie to them, but the truth was impossible. 

"I wasn't expecting you," he said.

With a small, contented sigh, she shifted so her head was pillowed on his chest.

"I'm here to stay, Erik," she answered as his fingers traced idle circles along her arm, "just as I promised." 

"Are you sure that's wise, Helene?"

"It probably wasn't very wise for me to come here that first time. But I have not regretted it for a moment. I never will."

He turned, drawing her beneath him.

"Do you realize what you are damning yourself to, Helene?"

He caressed her face as he spoke, smoothing her sleep-tangled hair back from her forehead. 

"Damning myself?"

"Yes…damning yourself…to the loneliness, the isolation…to enduring the sight of this face…this is hell and, yet, you walk into it so willingly." 

"Hell, Erik," she said angrily, pushing him away and sitting up, "was counting the hours until I could return to you. Hell is not being able to see you, not hearing your voice…waking in the night without you beside me."

He sat up, too, untangling himself from the bedclothes.

"But what will you do here? Believe me, Helene, the boredom can drive you to the edge of insanity."

"I shall find ways to keep busy. I've known the ennui of being a respectable widow in a little Sicilian town." 

"I could teach you…to sing."

She shook her head, remembering the beauty of her sister-in-law's voice.

"No, Erik, no. I told you once before that I am not…" she hesitated, almost afraid to said that name, "I am not Christine."

He looked away from her, staring for a moment at a tarnished little bronze gondola that lay in a stone niche, trying to remember when and where he had acquired it.

"You really do love me, don't you," he said at last.

Her answer was a kiss so sudden and zealous that it was several moments before he could respond, matching her passion with his own.

------------------------

Erik was sitting on the ottoman beside the sofa, his head against her knees as he read to her.

_Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,  
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,  
Have put on black and loving mourners be,  
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.  
And truly not the morning sun of heaven  
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,  
Nor that full star that ushers in the even,  
Doth half that glory to the sober west,  
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:  
O! let it then as well beseem thy heart  
To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,  
And suit thy pity like in every part.   
_  
It was a battered copy of Shakespeare printed in English, but he read it to her in Italian, knowing how much she enjoyed hearing it like that.

Finally, he snapped the book shut and looked up at her. Her eyes were closed, her one hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

"So," he said dryly, tossing the volume aside, "not even a day with me and you are bored already."

She did not open her eyes, but she smiled as she answered him.

"Not bored, Erik. But I am sure you can find some way to amuse me." 

"Amuse you? My dear, I'm a cynical old ghost. I'm not amusing in the least."

But as he spoke, he turned and pushed up the cream-colored silk of her dressing gown.

She sighed, anticipated his touch of his skilled hands. Instead, he pressed his lips along the inside of her thigh.

Her eyes flew open, wide with surprise at the first flick of his tongue against her.

"Erik…oh…Erik…it's too much…please, stop…I can't…"

Even as she protested, she opened herself to him, shuddering with need as his rough cheek scraped against her skin.

Her own hands felt so clumsy as she tugged off the sash that held the robe closed. When the gown fell open, he leaned over her, kissing her stomach and breasts before he lifted her hips against him.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, lightheaded with pleasure as he plunged into her with slow and relentless tenderness.

He sat back, pulling her up with him so she was straddling his lap.

As his thrusts became deeper and more urgent, she spread her own hands against his back as she gave in to him completely.

_La petite mort…the little death…that's what they call this… _

When he lay spent against her, she realized that she was weeping and trembling…but not only with the sweet aftershocks of their passion…but with disbelief.

Had she really heard those words, a hoarse whisper against her throat as he took her?

_No…I was delirious…dreaming….he never said it… _

She did not dare believe it…she did not dare.  
_  
Helene, I love you. _


	33. Chapter 33

She wanted desperately to shake him, to beg him to repeat those words. But if it had only been her own yearning, an illusion in the depths of their passion…  
_  
I cannot ask him to say it again, only to have him deny it…I cannot risk that…it would kill me.  
_  
He stirred in her arms and she knew he would let his cheek…the unmarred side…rest against her own. He had become fond of sleeping like that, his face pressed to hers. She hastily wiped away the tears with the back of her hand, not wanting him to feel them.

_Forget what you heard…what you only thought you heard! _

She nudged him so lightly.

"Erik, please, this settee isn't very comfortable. Please, let's go to bed now.

He rose with a reluctant groan. He stretched a little and smiled at her. 

"Whatever you wish, Helene."

--------------------- 

It was one of those rare mornings when she opened her eyes and did not see him beside her.

She sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her temples.

She had slept poorly, despite the comfort of his nearness. Every second of the night, those words had echoed…not just in her mind, but throughout her body like a new pulse.

And hidden within that echo was a vague, chill demon's voice.

_This will not last. This cannot last. Sooner or later…this will end. _

"I won't let that happen," she said out loud to herself as she dressed and went down the steps. 

She found Erik was dressed, his mask and wig in place. He was going out…or he had been out already.

"I'm afraid I have to leave you alone for a while, my dear," he said, his gloved hand cupping her jaw as he tilted her face up and kissed her forehead.

"Let me go with you."

"You're pale and you look tired. Go back to sleep. I won't be gone long." 

She touched the edge of his mask, feeling the contrast between the cold leather and his skin.

"I'm fine, Erik. Only, come back quickly."

When he had gone, the loneliness of the grottoes settled around her.

How could he live like this for so long?

She ran her hand across the ivory keys of the organ as she passed it.

He had things to occupy his hands, his mind…his drawings, his music, his hopes for Christine. 

She sat down at the work table and picked up the heavy portfolio filled with portraits of Christine.

The likenesses were perfect. The girl in each picture matched exactly with the young woman she'd met only a few days ago.

There she was, radiant in a white gown with spangles and stars that seemed to flash from the page, elegant in a pink costume that Marie Antoinette would have envied, coy in a gypsy costume of peach and black, veiled and innocent in a bridal gown.

Tucked in among those paintings was a sketch of a man, a self-portrait of Erik. He wore no mask and every flaw had been so brutally rendered in harsh, reckless lines. 

She closed the portfolio, unable to see more. As she laid it down, she saw a second folder in a half-opened drawer.

More pictures of Christine, no doubt.

She opened it and spread the watercolors out on the table, startled to see her own face drawn by his hand.

She saw herself on the roof, his cloak blowing around her. And asleep on the divan, his dressing gown loose on her figure, reading in the book-filled alcove.

She smiled when she saw the volume of Byron's poems in her hands.

The last picture was an unfinished…yet so carefully drawn…sketch of a woman in black, her own features vague beneath a widow's veil. 

She looked at the date on that one…it was drawn only two days after her accident with the trap-door.

She put them away quickly, returning them to the drawer.  
_  
Why did he hide them? _


	34. Chapter 34

Helene turned when she heard footsteps in the passage leading up to the Rue Scribe, rather surprised that Erik would choose to return that way. He preferred to cross the the lake, to come and go through the desolate theatre itself.

But it was not Erik who stood in the entrance.

"Monsieur Nadir!"

He nodded by way of a greeting, but it was clear he had not expected to find Helene there. 

"Forgive me, Madame, I did not mean to frighten you. I was looking for Erik."

"He went out, Monsieur. I don't know where. He said he would come back soon. Would you care to wait for him."

"Yes, I suppose I will wait. My business with him will not take long. To be truthful, Madame, I was quite startled to see you here."

As he took a seat, he glanced around the room. He caught sight of her cloak lying over a chair, one of Erik's waistcoats tossed carelessly beside it.

Nadir gave a sort of small, shrewd half nod. As unlikely as it seemed that his old friend would take a lover, especially after the matter with Christine Daae ended so terribly, it was clear to him that there was some sort of intimate arrangement between Erik and this Comtessa. And that arrangement undoubtedly had something to do with the two small parcels tucked safely inside his coat.

Helene did not try to explain her presence in Erik's home to him. It would be best to leave that to Erik. So she did her best to converse with the guest on mundane things.

As she served him coffee, he suddenly interrupted her.

"Madame, you must tell me one thing to put my mind at ease. Are you here of your own free will?"

She set down the ibrik with a steady hand and met his gaze.

"Yes, Monsieur. I am here of my own free will."

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

"You are telling me the truth? Does he have some hold over you?"

_Does he have a hold over me? He does, yes! But it is one I have given him. _

There was no pointing in withholding the truth.

"I am here, Monsieur, because I love him. Of my own free will. Does that shock you? Do you think it is impossible to love him?"

To her relief, the Persian smiled as he took the coffee.

"No, my dear lady, I do not think it impossible to love him. Yet I did not think there was any woman with the courage to do so. You have my respect for that, Madame."

Then he frowned, staring for a moment at the sweet coffee.

"Are you aware that Christine Daae has returned to Paris?"

"Yes," she said in a calm, low voice, "I am very aware of her return. She is my brother's wife."

Nadir set his cup down abruptly, staring at her in complete disbelief. The woman was a de Chagny, sister to the man who had come between Erik and his protégé…and she was here with him, his lover by her own admission.

"I know what you must be thinking. That of all people…"

He was even more surprised when she fell to her knees before him, hands clasped and eyes pleading.

"Monsieur, I beg you…not a word to Erik. Please…please, do not tell him that she is here!"


	35. Chapter 35

"Please, Monsieur, I will do anything…only do not say a word to him." 

Nadir looked at the woman kneeling before him. It was not the first time he had seen a woman prostrate herself before him.

On many occasions, as he fulfilled his duties as the Daroga of Manzandaran, he had watched women weep at his feet, pleading for mercy for a husband or son condemned by the Shah.

This Comtessa had that same look, a quiet desperation that was most unnerving. It was all the proof he needed that she was indeed there of her own accord.

"There is no reason to kneel. I will not say anything to Erik."

Leaning down, he helped her to her feet, her voice breaking as she thanked him.

As she smoothed her skirt, she tried to regain her composure. If Erik returned, she did not want him to see her agitated.

She picked up the ibrik again to pour some coffee for herself when they heard the sound of the heavy portcullis grinding upward.

As the plain black boat came into view, Helene went down the steps to the lake to wait for Erik.

She caught her breath as watched him pole it to the edge and leapt ashore, his cape swirling around his tall body as he came towards her.

He caught her by her waist and drew her against him, the cloak wrapping around her body as he kissed her, letting his mouth trail from her lips to her throat.

"Erik," she whispered, "we have a guest."

"A guest?"

"Yes, Monsieur Nadir is here to see you," she told him, reluctantly pushing herself from his arms.

He let her go, but kept one hand on the small of back…a gesture that was at once possessive and protective.

"Daroga! I did not expect to see you here. I called at your apartment, but Darius said he did not know where you had gone."

"You were supposed to call last night. I was worried that you had met with some misfortune."

Erik laughed. It was the first time Nadir had heard that sound without an undertone of bitterness or sarcasm.

"No misfortune, old friend. Quite the opposite. I should like to speak with you alone." 

"I will leave you," Helene said, picking up the tray. 

"No, stay where you are. This won't take a moment." 

As Helene put away the coffee service, Erik led Nadir into the passage that led out to the Rue Scribe.

She heard their voices, speaking in a language she could not understand. Persian? 

When Erik returned to her, he was alone. In his hands, he held a small parcel in his hands, a little bundle wrapped in purple silk.

He set in down on the desk, finally removing his cloak and gloves.

"Come, Helene," he said, unfolding the silk, "I have something for you."

He motioned for her to join him at the desk and, when she stood beside him, he lifted a necklace from the purple folds.

Helene was accustomed to fine jewelry. She had inherited her grandmother's pieces, some of which dated back to the reign of The Sun King. Theo, too, had been very fond of giving her such gifts, often to ease his conscious after some affair. 

But she had never seen anything more beautiful that the heavy strand of pearls and gems that lay in Erik's hands.

He held it out to her, gleaming and coiled on his palm.

There was something strangely touching, almost heartbreaking about the way he offered it to her with a hopeful look in his eyes.

Like a penitent making an offering an altar…or a child who hopes to please, but is afraid of offending…

So unlike Theo who would just casually toss some pretty trinket into her lap.

She turned and flung her arms around him without a word, just needing to be close to him.

He had not expected her abrupt embrace and she heard the soft clatter of the necklace slipping from his hand. 

She buried her face against his shoulder, never wanting to release him.

"Just hold me, Erik. Please, hold me."

He did as she asked, leaning back against the desk and supporting the easy weight of her body against him.

When she reached up to stroke the cool curves of his mask, she felt him take a deep, wavering breath…a sigh of unfamiliar content that was warm and reassuring against her forehead.

There was only silence between them for a long time, silence and the low tick of the battered casket clock.

She did not want to think anymore, to worry, even to hope. She only wanted to feel the closeness of him. 

_There is only Erik…only Erik…only you, Erik. _

Steadying her against him, he reached back and lifted the necklace from the chair where it had fallen.

He took one of her hands and unfolded her fingers.

"Take it, Helene," he said, pressing it onto her palm.

She opened her eyes almost reluctantly, not wanting to lose that still intimacy.

She looked at the necklace, two short entwined rows of large baroque pearls generously interspersed with random stones…amethysts, rubes, emeralds, sapphires, and golden topaz.

"Erik, it's exquisite," she said, watching the light leap across it, "please put it on me."

She turned and lifted her hair from her neck as he fastened the choker around her throat.

When he had secured the clasp, he slowly traced the contours of her shoulders with his thumb before bringing her to face him again.

She felt the cold gems warming to her skin as he took both her hands and brought them to his face.

When he spoke at last, his voice so low and rich that it seemed her soul tremble at the sound of it.


	36. Chapter 36

His hands were still on hers, pressing her palms tighter against his face. 

"Helene, Helene," he said and she felt the vibration of his voice in her own hands.

Had his eyes always been this deep, this intense, this beautiful? She found herself growing dizzy as she met his gaze.

He hesitated, his hands trembling over her, his lips parted as if he were afraid to speak.

"Helene, I believe…that I am…that I am falling in love with you."

She caught her breath in disbelief.

_I wasn't dreaming then…I didn't imagine those words last night… _

Yet, even before her mind could accept the words her heart and soul had begged to hear, he had slowly pried her hands from him, dropping them gently at her side.

And he walked away from her, his breathing ragged as he stood leaning over the organ. His fists rested on the closed keyboard, the knuckles white against the polished black wood. 

She followed him, but he did not look up at her. 

"Helene…forget what I just said…I cannot…"

She saw the pain and guilt in his eyes, as if his words had somehow betrayed Christine.

"Erik, don't be afraid to love again. You truly loved Christine even though she choose another. I loved Theo, even though his infidelities hurt and humiliated me. But he is gone and I love you now, more than I loved him. More than I thought humanly possible. Don't be afraid to love me, Erik."

As she spoke, She ran her fingers all along the edge of the mask. When she had traced its outline completely, she removed it, drawing of his wig as well.

She laid them on the bench and kissed him, tasting the almost sinful sweetness of his lips as if for the first time.

His arms went around her, bending her back against the instrument, curving her body along his as he responded to her kiss with a hunger that was not born of lust.

He did not let her go until they were both completely breathless, until she felt herself on the edge of unconsciousness.

He stroked her cheek for a moment, seeing how pale she was, the dark circles beneath her eyes. 

"Come up to the roof with me, Helene. You need some air." 

As he helped her into her green wool cloak, she reached up and touched the choker.

"Erik, I didn't thank you for the necklace. It's so beautiful."

He laughed, pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat.

"I'm sure you can find some way to find you way to express your gratitude later. You can be very….eloquent, my dear."


	37. Chapter 37

As she followed him up to the rooftop, she wondered if she were only imaging a change in Erik.

His whole demeanor seemed altered and he strode across the leads with an ease unfamiliar to Helene.

She was even more amazed when he suddenly caught her up in his arms and spun her around, his cloak wrapping around them both.

"Erik," she said, catching her breath as he set her down, "I want to make you happy."

He did not answer her, but smiled and kissed her forehead.

"Come," he said, taking her hand and pulling her with him toward the angel that stood guard at the corner of the roof.

"Erik, what on earth are you doing," she said as he lifted her easily onto the pedestal before leaping up beside her.

"There are steps in the back of the statue…I want you to see the city from there."

"Oh, but I can't! It's too high, too steep. I'll fall."

He put his arm around her, guiding her to the first step.

"Trust me, Helene. I would never let that happen to you."

She felt him close behind her, one arm steady and strong around her waist as she carefully made her way up.

A few more steps and she was standing between the angel's massive wings, clasping the iron rails for balance.

The late afternoon sun was spreading cold, clear light over the streets and glistening on the Seine.

"Oh, Erik…it's marvelous! The view…so beautiful."

He pushed her wind-blown hair from his face with one hand, still holding her tightly to him as she leaned back to smile up at him.

Looking down at her, he saw the cool air had brought a rosy glow back to her soft cheeks.

"You are mine, Helene," he said, leaning to kiss her, "mine forever."

"Forever, Erik? Are you certain that will long enough?"

She heard only a low chuckle as he kissed her again and they looked out over the Place de l'Opera. The square itself was deserted, but beyond it…out on the boulevard, they could see couples strolling.

Once again, she heard his words as if he'd repeated them then and there, words he'd spoken in his anguished confession.

_I_ _wanted to be human…to have a normal life…a wife who would love me… _

For a fleeting moment, she felt a splinter of sadness jabbing at her heart.

_Could ever be like that for us? _

A carriage pulled into the square, its wheel jarringly loud on the paving stones.

Helene's eyes widened with horror when she saw her family's crest on the side, when she saw her younger brother help his wife step from the vehicle.

-----------------------------------

_  
No…not here…not now! _

Helene never once imagined that her brother and Christine would come back to the old Opera Populaire. 

_How dare they come back here! _

As she watched, the couple stood in the square, looking up at the scarred façade of the theatre as the wind fluttered Christine's garnet-colored shawl and Raoul's scarf.

She found herself praying silently and frantically that Erik would not look down over her shoulder and see them.

But she felt his fingers digging into her waist between the stays. And she saw his other hand clutch the edge of the angel's wing.

She knew he had seen them.

"Erik," she began, not really sure what she could say or do.

He did not answer her, all his attention was on the pair below.

It was impossible to hear what words past between them, but they could be seen so clearly.

She could see the emotions on Christine's face, a mix of sadness and fear as she stared at the ruin of her home, the place where she had heard the voice of an angel and, under his guidance, triumphed…where everything had gone so terribly wrong for everyone involved.

Christine leaned a little closer to her husband, said something to him.

Raoul smiled at her, one had coming to rest gently on her belly.

_She's going to have a baby! I should have seen it, I should have known. That's why they came home…Raoul would want his child to be born here, in Paris. _

She looked back at Erik. He still held her securely, but he seemed unaware of her in his arms…watching, silent and tense, as Raoul helped guided Christine back to the carriage. 

"Please, Erik, I want to go home. Take me back now."

It was not until the Vicomte's carriage had rattled from the square that Erik moved or spoke.

"Home, Helene," he said bitterly, "To your father's house? To Sicily? Or back into hell with me?"

Quite unexpectedly, she felt his hand slide slowly up her waist to curve around her breast and he kissed the nape of her neck, his teeth skimming against her skin.

Without another word, he took her hand and helped her down from the angel. 

They descended through the abandoned theatre. He said little, but kept her hand as his.

When they had crossed the lake, he lifted her from the boat and his eyes seemed to glow in the dimly lit chamber.

"Help me forget that sight."


	38. Chapter 38

_Help me forget… _

They did not move from the landing, but she pressed herself to him. She grasped the velvet collar of his cape as her lips wandered his disfigured face ever so slowly before she found his own.

As she kissed him, he pushed her own cloak from her and began to unfasten her gown. He would not let her break the contact of that kiss as he carefully maneuvered the dress from her body.

His tongue delved into the warmth of her mouth as he tugged loose the laces of her corset and pulled her chemise down off her shoulder. Both were oblivious to the sound of the silk ripping as he yanked it free from her and tossed it aside.

Finally, she stood before him wearing nothing but the necklace he had given her only an hour or two earlier.

_We were so close to being happy together… _

She took his hand and undid the button of his glove, pressing her lips against his bared wrist before drawing off one glove and then the other.

He carried her up the steps…not to his own room, but to the swan bed.

She made no protest as he pushed her into the crimson cushions and quickly removed his own garments.

"I love you," he said, his lips moving tenderly along the gentle slant of her collarbone, "I love you."

She closed her eyes as he caressed her, his hands pausing for a moment to lie still and heavy on her breasts. 

_Who are those words meant for…for me…or for her… _

Even when she heard him whispering her own name, her mind felt no relief.

And when he took her, she knew that something had changed between them.

_It's as if he is making love…not just to my body…but my soul…_

As if for the last time…  
  
That thought terrified her, she could not banish it as her body welcomed him with a strange desperation that seemed to match his own.

One of her hands clutched frantically at the coverlet, the other was enmeshed in his hair.

He stopped abruptly and took both of her wrists, pinning them to the pillow.

"Tell me, Helene, tell me again that you love me." 

"Erik, please…you know it…"

"Tell me!" 

"I love you, Erik," she gasped, feeling the heat of him so still within her.

"Swear to me," he demanded, his teeth grazing the smoothness of her shoulder, "that you will never leave me!"

It seemed almost impossible for her to speak, but she forced herself to answer him.

"I swear it…Erik…Erik…please…don't stop!"

---------

She awakened in his embrace, the curve of her back fitted against his chest.

She almost blushed as she realized that his hand still lay so intimately against the fold of her thigh.

She smiled instead and closed her eyes again.


	39. Chapter 39

Helene rolled over slowly, reaching to find the coverlet that lay rumpled at the foot of the bed.

Erik had made love to her a second time during the night and her whole body seemed suffused with a pleasant, but persistent ache.

The blanket lay just out of her reach and she reluctantly sat up to grab it by a corner.

He was asleep, lying on his stomach with the right side of his face hidden in the pillows.

She drew the velvet blanket up to his waist, noticing the tension of his shoulders. His hand lay close to his face, half curled into a fist.  
_  
What are you dreaming of, Erik…who are you dreaming of?_

His unruly hair had fallen across his face and she reached over to smooth it back, not wanting his features to be hidden from her.

Lying as he was, every scar on his shoulder and back was clear to her. She murmured his name under her breath as she let her finger slowly trace its way through that terrible labyrinth of pain.

How long had he endured such abuse? How had he endured it?

One long thin scar ran across his ribs and matched perfectly with one on his arm, the narrow lash of a whip.

She closed her eyes against the sight, not wanting to imagine the things that had happened to him. And she lay down again, resting against his back…her own body covering the scars.

"Christine…"

It wasn't just the name itself that knifed through her. It was the tenderness in his voice. 

She felt as if something inside her was dying. Her soul? Her heart?

She rose, wondering that she could even stand for she was shaking, and went to find her clothing.

Two days ago, it would not have hurt her this much…if he had never told her that he loved her…she could have borne it.

_I cannot do it…I cannot stay here night after night…not knowing who he is really making love to. _

She had not yet arranged for her luggage to be brought to the ruined opera house, there had been no pressing need to. It would make her departure so much easier, there was only the tiny trunk which she packed as quickly as she could…praying he would not hear her.

Her wedding ring still lay in a cracked dish of Chinese porcelain on his desk where he'd put it that day he slipped it from her hand.

She put the gold band on her finger, realizing that she was still wearing the necklace. She unfastened the heavy clasp and laid the choker on the desk.

She wanted to go to him and press her lips to his one last time. She wanted him to awaken, to pull her down into his arms and make love to her until she died from bliss.

She stood in the door that led up towards the Rue Scribe and looked back at him, almost unable to see him through the tears.

_Don't let me go, Erik…please, wake up…please, don't let me leave…don't let me go! _

But he did not move, did not awaken.

Then, picking up the little trunk, she hurried up the dark passageway.


	40. Chapter 40

Erik awoke to a cold, unfamiliar silence. He had grown so used to feel of Helene's warm body beside him, to the gentle sound of her breathing.

Sitting up, he rubbed his face absentmindedly, only barely conscious of the ridged, twisted flesh as he tried to shake off the clinging fog of sleep.

He had dreamed that Christine came to him, dressed in a silver-white bridal gown and veil.

She said nothing, but stood just beyond the open portcullis with her arms held out to him.

He could not see her face beneath the shimmering veil. Nor did he want to. He wanted to lift that shimmering lace and see Helene smiling up at him…not Christine, not now.

He turned away and let the portcullis close between them.

"Goodbye, Christine," he'd said.

He dressed quickly, wondering where Helene was. Had she gone out on her own?

He needed to feel her close to him, to tell her…

He saw the necklace lay on his desk…the wedding ring was gone…

She had left him…without a word, without warning…she had left him.

She had held him in her arms on the snow-dusted roof and promised that she would never leave.

And, now, she was gone.

He picked up the necklace. The stones had been a fiery rainbow between the cloud-white pearls when he'd fastened it around her slender neck. Now it lay in his hand, cold and lifeless and worthless.

He dropped it onto the desk and reached into the inner pocket of his coat. The other parcel was still there.

He unwrapped it, setting the heavy gold ring beside the necklace.

He had nothing to offer her…no name, no real home…but he had meant to give her that ring…a wedding gift, even if there could be no vows, no marriage license.

She had been the first person to love him without reservations or conditions, to show him what happiness and peace could feel like.

And because of that, her sudden betrayal hurt more than any other suffering he had known in his life.

She had left nothing else behind except that necklace. If it were not for the lingering scent of her carnation perfume, it seemed as if she had never existed.

The large green garnet flashed as he slipped the ring on his little finger.

He would give her that ring. Willing or not, she would wear it.


	41. Chapter 41

_A quick author's note - this scene takes place in a real catacomb in Palermo. If you are not squeamish, this site has pictures and information on the Capuchin crypts...http/members. don't say I didn't warn you._

_I've been wanting to use it in a story for ages._

* * *

The Capuchin monk nodded his gratitude as Helene pressed a donation into his calloused hand.

"Are you certain, Signora, that you would not want one of us to escort you into the catacombs?"

"Grazie, ma no."

When the monk left her, she walked quickly down the shallow steps into the endless vaults.

She was surrounded by death.

There were corpses everywhere. Centuries worth of the departed. They were tucked neatly onto shelves, hanging from the walls in eternal rows.

They lay with arms crossed over bony chests or sagged against the white-washed plaster, heads askew and jaws gaping.

They were dressed as they had in life…in gowns, in suits, in priestly vestments and soldierly uniforms.

Helene kept her eyes lowered beneath her veil as she passed among them.

Perhaps most disturbing were the tiny, withered corpses of infants and small children with tiny bonnets growing stiff and yellow around mummified faces.

She hurried on until she came to a heavy silver-trimmed casket.

A fine layer of dust had settled on its glass top. She took a handkerchief from her little bag and wiped it away, Theo's half-forgotten face becoming clear as she did.

Like the others around him, he had been mummified by the Capuchins. His body had been dried on a rack before being treated with a mix of herbs and vinegar.

But those ministrations could not hold off the gruesome alteration of death. His features were hideous now, sunken as the skin pulled tight across the bones.

Beneath his fading suit, she knew the exact places where the knife had sunk into his flesh.

She could hardly bear to look at him now.

As she knelt on the little prie-Dieu before him, she drew back her veil.

She had resumed wearing mourning the day she left Erik. She felt as if she had been somehow widowed for second time.

Over a month had past since that final night in his arms. She had forced herself not to think of him, not to dream of him.

Now, kneeling beside her husband's coffin, she let herself weep for Erik. She covered her face with her hands and let the tears come freely.

"_Helene…Helene…Helene!"_


	42. Chapter 42

Helene looked up, her surprise giving way to fear as she realized who…no…what had called to her.

The voice came from slack mouth of a corpse hanging on the wall to the left of her husband's casket. 

She didn't not scream, only made a sort of gasping cry as she heard her name repeated by a skeleton in a dress of rotten rose-colored silk.

Then a skull, its spectacles oddly intact though the rest of its body had long ago turned to dust, whispered to her.

"Helene, Helene!"

Her horror grew as her name echoed through the vault, leaping from one corpse to another until it was Theo himself who called to her.

Even as she gripped at the armrest of the kneeler, fighting against the sickening panic, she remembered a night in Erik's arms…after they made love, he'd held her as a little bronze grasshopper sang an old Latin hymn.

Erik was, among other things, a ventriloquist. 

She was not certain if the thought was comforting or terrifying. She had broken her promise to him…she had run from him…if he found her now, he would despise her.

"Helene." 

Her name was repeated one final time. Not by one of the ghastly mummies that surrounded her, but by the man who stood in the arch between vaults.

Erik…

He wore a black cape that hung like a shadow around his body, undisturbed by the still, dry air. A soft black hat was pulled low over his face, half-concealing the black mask he wore.

She rose from the kneeler.

"Erik…how did you…how did you find me here?" 

She wanted to run to him, to fall to her knees before him and beg him to take her home.

But, as he came down the steps toward her, she took a involuntary step back.

"Your servants here are most indiscreet. And most receptive to bribes." 

He glanced around idly as he approached her.

"How appropriate, Comtessa, that you would feel from the arms of one corpse and into the arms of another."

He leaned over the silver-trimmed casket, examining the wasted features of the man who lay beneath the glass.

"Your husband, Madame," he asked, his voice softening for only a moment as he saw the salty streaks of tears of her cheeks.

"Yes, this is…this was Theo," she said as she felt coldness and bitterness of his demeanor wrap itself around her like a cloak of lead.

"Erik, forgive me." 

"Forgive you, Madame? You showed me compassion and then you left me! You claimed that you loved me…and you left me. Even Christine said goodbye in her own confused way…but, from you, nothing! Do you even realize just how cruel you are?"

----------------

She had expected him to be angry, but she was still unprepared for the venom in his voice.

She held out her hands to him, a pleading and helpless gesture.

He grasped her wrists, pinning her arms at her sides as he pulled her against him.

"Why, Helene," he hissed, "why?"

There was no tenderness in him now and she forced herself not think of those too few nights they had shared. 

"You were cruel, too, Erik. You took everything…"

"I took only what you offered so willingly, Comtessa!"

"Yes, willingly, Erik! I wanted you and I love you. And you were the one who betrayed me."

He let her go and began to pace back and forth among the mummies.

"Betrayed you? I assure you, Madame that I…"

"You did, Erik," she said, not certain whether it was anger or pain that choked her words as she caught edge of his cloak, "you told me you loved me. Then, while I was still in your arms, you called out for her."

"For her," Erik repeated, tugging his cape from her.

"You called for Christine. After you made love to me, after you told me the one thing I wanted to hear…the one thing I wanted…oh, Erik…it was too much…"

She turned from him, sinking back down onto the kneeler and hiding her face against the casket.

Erik stared up at the corpses on the wall above him. Here he felt anonymous, his own hideousness was lost amid the twisting, leering faces of the dead. Helene was the outsider here, her pretty face was out of place here.

Directly opposite him, the skeleton of a bride dangled loosely against the wires that held it its niche. The woman's skin had shriveled over fine bones and she seemed to laugh at him beneath her stiff, dusty veil.

He wondered who she was…who she had been…why she had been laid to rest in her virginal white. Had she died on her wedding day? Had her mourning groom carefully placed her in that alcove?

He shook his head against the curiosity. He was tired of Death. His entire life had been defined by it…Death had been his means of survival…

_The dream! _

Christine had come to him as a bride and he had turned her away.

_Did I say it aloud? Is that what Helene heard? Is that why she left me? _

He felt the hate receding from his body, the hate and rage that had driven him out of the opera house, had driven him from Paris to Palermo to find her.

He laid his hand on her shoulder, feeling the silent sobs that shook her.

"Helene, forgive me."

She did not move or look up at him.

"Erik, I cannot."


	43. Chapter 43

"Helene, it was a dream…only a dream."

"Yes, that's all it was, Erik," she interrupted, shrugging off his hand, "only a dream. I wanted to believe that you could love me."

"No…you don't understand," he said, sliding the ebony pin from her hair so gently she hardly felt his actions.

He paused to lift the black veil from her head. He let it fall onto the glass lid of the casket, the sheer darkness obscuring Theo's face.

Then he drew her necklace from his coat pocket and draped it lightly around her throat.

"No, Erik…I don't want it. You cannot buy my forgiveness."

He ignored her protests and secured it around her neck before reaching down and taking both her hands again. 

"Listen to me, Helene. Christine was my obsession and I loved her. Do you hear me, Helene…I loved her. That night you left me, I finally understood that. I dreamt that she came to me…I saw her waiting for me at the portcullis.

As he went on, he slowly dropped to his knees behind her. Without letting go of her hands, he wrapped his arms around her tense body.

"She came to me as a bride. And I turned from her. You see, I thought you could never replace Christine."

He took a deep breath, leaning forward to rest his chin on her shoulder.

"That night, I realized my mistake. She could never replace you. Helene, I love you."

"No, Erik…don't say that to me again. I might believe you."

He turned her in his embrace, saw her eyes were shining with tears.

He kissed her, heedless of the dead multitude that surrounded them. Indeed, those gaping, leering reminders of mortality seemed to only heighten his sense of desperation.

"I need you, Helene. I need you."

He felt her respond to him slowly, reluctantly wrapping her arms around him and pressing her damp cheek against his mask.

"Erik," she whispered after a long time, "I am going home. Come with me." 

He rose, pulling her up with him, and kissed her again.

"My carriage is waiting outside," she said, taking his hand and leading him towards the stairs.

The Capuchin monk met them at the entrance. He barely concealed his surprise or his disapproval.

The Comtessa had come to the vaults alone to visit her husband as she did from time to time when she was in Palermo.

And, now, she was leaving in the company of a most curious gentleman. If a man in a black mask outside of Carnevale could be considered a gentleman. 

And just how had that man entered the catacombs? Brother Silvestri had been on duty at the door all afternoon…he had not seen this stranger before.

The masked man pressed several gold coins into the monk's palm and helped the Comtessa into her carriage.

His eyes never left her face.

In the depths of the vaults, Helene's veil lay forgotten on her husband's casket.

-------------------

As Erik handed her into her carriage, she noticed an unfamiliar black valise strapped beside her own trunks. And, on the seat inside, she found his violin case lying beside a portfolio.

She looked at him questioningly and he laughed.

"My dear, you forget that in Persia I was called the Trap-Door Lover."

"Is that all you took with you when you left Paris," she asked, settling into her usual seat in the corner.

"Yes," he answered, climbing into the carriage beside her, "that was all I took." 

He laid one hand on her knee as the vehicle began to move. 

"I have missed you, Helene."

She said nothing, but stared out the window as the carriage rattled through the piazza. How could she begin to tell him how much she had missed him, how many morning she'd awaken alone…so desperate for the sound of his voice, for his arms around her.

"Erik, in the catacombs, you asked me to forgive you. Now, it's my turn to ask you to forgive me."

He reached for her, to draw her close. But she caught his hands and held him still for a moment.

"Let me finish, Erik. I promised you that I would never leave you. I broke that promise. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Well, I am certain I can think of a suitable penance for you, my dear," he said, pulling her onto his lap.

She gasped as he slid his hand beneath her skirt and petticoats, his lips against her neck. 

"Erik, this isn't the time or the place…"

Even as she tried to weakly protest, the carriage lurched on the rough pavement and she clutched at his waistcoat.

"Yes, Helene," he said, unfastening his trousers and turning her so that she was straddling his lap, "this is the time and the place. I did not follow you here to sit and chat with you, to play at cards or…" 

She did not let him finish, but pushed her fingers beneath the edge of the black mask and eased it off his face.

She wanted to cry out as her body welcomed him so eagerly, but his mouth was on hers, muffling her moans.

For a moment, he did not move, let the motion of the carriage rock her against him. 

"Erik…Erik…I have missed you."

He kept her steady with one hand, bracing himself against the wall of the carriage with the other as he thrust into her over and over.

She felt herself close to collapsing when her body shook with both their releases.

She let herself go limp in his embrace, hardly feeling the ring that he slipped onto her fingers as she closed her eyes.


	44. Chapter 44

They made few stops between Palermo and Licaria. The carriage paused only long enough to rest the horses, long enough for them to take hurried meals at some little inn, ignoring the curious and often superstitious stares directed towards a masked man in the company of an aristocratic woman. They slept in the carriage, her head on his shoulder and her hands in his.

As they neared Licaria, the sky had darkened with thick clouds and the sound of the thunder mingled with the low rumble from the depths of Mount Etna.

As the carriage made its way up the steep road between the town and the villa, the storm broke.

When they reached the house, the rain was heavy and obscured the glowing summit of Etna. They hurried from carriage to door. Even with Erik's cloak around them both, their clothes were soaked by the time the housekeeper admitted them into the hall.

"Maria-Catena, please," Helene told the surprised woman, "bring some hot tea for us. To my room. And see that Salvatore brings in our luggage as soon as the storm passes." 

Erik barely noticed the woman's curious glance as he lifted his wet cape from Helene's shoulders and handed it to the housekeeper.

"One more thing, Maria-Catena," Helene added, "see if you can find some fresh clothing for…for…" 

She glanced down at the heavy ring on her hand.

"For my husband," she said, finally.

The housekeeper shook her head discretely as she hurried down the shallow stone steps to the kitchen. She had been informed of the mistresses planned return from Paris after a short stay in Palermo. She was, however, expecting the lady to return alone.

When the woman had gone, Helene took Erik's arm and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Will you stay here with me, Erik?"

"If you will let me, Helene," he said, feeling her shiver beneath the soaked gown, "if you will let me."

She lead him upstairs to her room. The ever-efficient housekeeper had already left the tea on the low table beside the chaise and a small pile of letters lay on the tray, too. 

As Helene stepped behind a screen of carved olive-wood to change from her wet clothing as the housekeeper knocked on the door again.

Slipping on an embroidered silk robe over her nightgown, Helene answered the door.

"I've brought some of the late master's things, Signora. I think they will fit until…until the luggage is brought up in the morning."

She frowned at little as she glanced at Erik and, setting some clothes on the bed, left quickly.

"Don't mind her, Erik. She was with the family before I married. She's always been fond of me, but I think she is a bit surprised."

She handed Erik a cup of a hot strong tea that was liberally flavored with fresh lemon juice and turned to the garments on the bed.

"I think these will do. For the moment," she said, holding up a dressing gown of dark blue velvet and a white shirt, "now, get out of those wet clothes!" 

"With your assistance, Comtessa," he set as he set aside the tea and tugged at the sodden cravat.

---------------------------------------

Helene opened her eyes when she heard the muted tolling of the church bells in the village below.

Erik stirred a little, but did not open his eyes.

Something was different. She had, during those nights beneath the opera house, grown so accustomed to awakening beside him. And, when he left him, she had missed that silent, defenseless intimacy.

One of his hands, still entwined with her own, lay against her stomach.

It had rained throughout the night, but the morning was clear and bright beyond the windows of her bed room. 

And she knew what was so different about this silent, drowsy embrace. It was the sunlight. It streamed through the Cypriot lace curtains and over the bed…over the man who held her tightly. 

Until this morning, she had always awakened beside him in the dim, cool darkness of the grottos beneath the opera house.

And she remembered that morning when she sat in the bright breakfast room of the de Chagny house in Paris, wondering…hoping someday…

Her musing was interrupted by the warm brush of his lips against her wrist.

"Helene, why did you tell your housekeeper that I am your husband?"

She tugged her hand free from his and held it up, let the morning light catch the heavy ring with its vivid green stone.

"This is why, Erik."

"But there is nothing legally binding between us…there cannot be. I have no name, I might as well not exist. There are no vows."

She leaned over him, taking his face between both of her hands.

"I don't care about a legal marriage now," she said, kissing him, "this is the only vow that matters between us. Erik, I am your wife."

His hands covered her own as he repeated her words, first in disbelief and then in acceptance.

"My wife, Helene…my wife, my wife."


	45. Chapter 45

Reluctantly, Helene pushed back the plum and blue coverlet and found her nightgown and robe on the floor where Erik had let them fall.

Shrugging into the robe, she nudge open the door to her dressing room. 

Maria-Catena had almost finished unpacking Helene's trunks and most of her clothes had already been restored to the olive armoires.

"I'm almost done with your things, Signora. However, I was not certain what to do with his things. Do you want me to put them in the late master's dressing room?"

As she spoke, she gestured at Erik's shabby valise. It had been left unceremoniously in a corner while the housekeeper and one of the maid's saw to Helen's belongings.

"Don't worry about those, Maria. I will see to them."

"Is that all he brought with him, this Signor…"

The servant hesitated, not knowing how to refer to the Comtessa new husband.

"Erik," Helene said simply, choosing an amber silk dress from her wardrobe. 

The other woman hesitated with one brow arched, waiting for the new master's surname.

"Simply Erik. Now, have Lucia draw my bath."

When she had dressed, Helene took Erik's valise back into the bedroom. She set it down and smiled, pausing for a moment to watch him sleep.

Quietly, she set to unpacking for him. He had indeed taken very little with him when he left the Opera cellars to follow her to Sicily.

Two rumpled changes of clothing, a small leather pouch filled with money, a white mask…so very little.

And, of course, the violin and portfolios…and her jewelry.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. She almost hated to disturb him, but the enameled clock on the little writing desk was softly chiming half-past two.

She leaned down and let herself rest against his back, felt the scars on his back on her cheek. Then, straightened up, she gently shook his shoulder.

He turned, catching her hand and blinking against the unfamiliar light. 

"Hurry and get dressed, Erik. I will be waiting for you in the foyer. There's something I want to show you."

She left the bedroom before he had a chance to protest or pull her back down beside him. On the way, she paused to pick up the letters that still lay on the tea tray.

In the foyer, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and settled into the window seat to read her mail. Most were notes from friend in Sicily, idle chatter and invitations to dine with friends.

One note was postmarked Paris…she recognized her mother's graceful handwriting. She slid the creamy paper from the envelope with little curiosity.

It contained the expected…news of Philippe's "long overdue" engagement to a suitable lady, her father's plans for a visit to the family's country estate before Easter, the happy announcement that Raoul and Christine were going to have their first child. 

--------------------------------

She carefully folded her mother's letter and tucked it back into the envelope. That note only confirmed what she had suspected when she left Paris.

She turned the envelope over in her hands. She would tell Erik sometime. But not now. There were other things that mattered now, other things to be said.

As she set the letter aside, she looked up to see Erik standing over her.

She took his outstretched hands as she rose.

"You don't need to wear the mask with me. You know that."

"I didn't want to…disturb your servants." 

"Erik, take off that mask!"

He did as she asked, letting the mask and wig fall on the window seat beside the letter. 

She kissed his cheek lightly as she gathered her shawl around her shoulders.

"Helene, how can you stand to…"

"Don't ever hide from me, Erik."

She opened the door that led out on the piazza and the terraced gardens below.

"Come, there is something I want to show you."

She paused and picked up his violin case from the chair where he had left it the previous night.

"I've missed this," she said, handing it to him. 

It was a clear, cool afternoon. As always, the breeze was ever so slightly tinged with a hint of sulfur from Etna, the sharp scent mingling with the softer perfumes of the almond and lemon trees.

Taking his hand again, she led him through the garden and down the black stone steps that led through the orchards. She paid no attention to the startled look from the gardener.

_They shall simply have to get used to him. _

The path was dark in contrast to the bright winter wildflowers that edged the crushed lava stone and it led up into the old olive grove.

The palest hint of the moon was visible in the deep blue of the sky. The summit of the volcano was lost in a gray haze through which a slow vein of lava could be seen curling along the upper slopes. The cool, dry wind had cleared away ever trace of the night's storm.

"This place is beautiful, Helene," Erik said as she led him through the shadows of the grove, her hand secure in his.

"No one else seemed to care for this spot, but it has always been my favorite place."

She laid one hand on the violin case.

"Will you play for me now. I want to hear your music again."

"You know too well, Helene, I can deny you nothing," he said, taking the instrument from its case.

As he played for her, she sat down on the grass and closed her eyes to listen.


	46. Chapter 46

She leaned back on the trunk of the olive tree, felt the familiar knots of wood pressing her back.

She let herself simply hear.

The music he played was his own…a complex piece, constantly changing as he improvised. It was low and rich with undercurrents of gentleness and passion.

And she realized what made it so powerful and beautiful. It was as if she were listening to his soul.

She opened her eyes for a moment and watched him play. His own eyes were closed as he played, completely absorbed in his music.

He gives himself to each and every note…his music conceals nothing…there is no mask when he composes, when he plays.

But it was almost too soon that the music stopped and she watched as he carefully replaced the violin in its worn case.

He sat down beside her, his hand reaching for hers almost instinctively now. He looked around the secluded grove, almost ill at ease in brightness of the late afternoon light.

"Erik," she said, resting her head on his shoulder, her free hand on his knee, "be happy here with me."

"I've often doubted that I even had the ability to be happy. You have proven otherwise."

There were two things that needed to be said. This was the place for both. 

"Erik, the night we met…I dreamed of you. That you were with me here."

"Helene, I was ready to kill you that day," he said, his hand tracing her neck as he remembered wrapping that damned rope around her throat.

"But that night, I dreamed that I was here in this grove. A man was with me…he made love to me," she said, blushing at the memory of that restless night, "at, first, I thought it was Theo. But it wasn't…it was you. I never imagined…I never thought it could be true."

She let go of his hand and held her arms open to him.

"Erik, I want you to…I want you to come to me here and now."

Her shawl slipped from her shoulders as he kissed her, pushing her down beneath him.

The air was filled with the sweet, spicy scent of the wild oregano and thyme as it was crushed beneath their bodies. 

She braced her hands against his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart as he pushed her skirt and petticoats up past her knees. 

As he eased into her slowly, he pushed her windblown hair back from her face and her eyes met his.

This woman in his arms was Helene de Chagny…the widow of a Sicilian count…the woman he loved…the woman who loved him willingly and completely…his wife.

He let his hands explore her face as if for the first time, feeling the softness of her skin against his fingertips.

He whispered her name as he took her, his voice almost lost amid the rustling of the gray-green olive leaves, the call of shepherds rising from the valley below.

"Helene...my Helene."

-----------------------

The sun was just setting beyond the mountain, the bright rays mingling with the deeper glow within the crater.

The earth was growing cool beneath them, but neither Helene nor Erik was willing to move, to break from the comfort of their embrace.

He was leaning back against the olive tree, Helene resting against him.

Only once did she stir in his arms. His white shirt was wrinkled, unbuttoned and she turned to press a soft kiss on his bare skin.

"Flesh of my flesh," she murmured, still breathless and dazed.

Nothing had been held back, there had been no fear of loss, no fear than this would be the last time.

The surrender had been mutual and complete.

"Helene," he said, at last, "we should go back to the house."

He let her go slowly and reluctantly. She winced a little as he helped her to her feet.

They did their best to set their clothing straight. He fastened the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons of her dress, shaking the dust and leaves from her shawl,

And it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to help him knot his black silk cravat.

He bent to pick up his violin case, but she caught his shoulder.

"There is one thing I have to tell you. I want to say it here."

She pulled the shawl tighter against the increasing chill of the evening and looked up at him. The branches cast a shadow on him so that she could only see the ravaged side of his face.

She let her hand move down his arm to his wrist.

"Erik, I am going to have a child. I didn't know until I left you…until it was too late to go back to you. I swore I would find a way to tell you one day."

"A child? A child," he said in disbelief.

She felt him tense, saw a moment of amazement turn to uncertainty and heard his voice hoarse with fear.

"Helene, what if…"

She laid her fingers on his lips to silence him. Then she reached up, masking the unmarred side of his face with her hand.

"Hush, Erik. We are going to have a child."

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**THE END**

_**Thank you to everyone who has read and left reviews! I really appreciate it and, when I have time, I will try to respond to some of them.**_


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